Becoming
by TellMeMore90
Summary: Missing chapters, in no particular order, from the developing asexual relationship between Sherlock, John and Mary. (Part 4 of the Trefoil series referencing Watersheds and Trefoil). There are also guest appearances by various members of Mary's family, amongst others. (Not BBC S03 Mary)
1. Meet the Morstans - re:Watersheds Chpt 1

**Author's Note: I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for the genius of ACD and now MG, SM, BC, MF and the BBC crew.**

**I have no experience with asexuality, but have researched the subject on the internet, especially . I apologise if I have got anything wrong. Any errors are for the sake of the story and not to cause offence.**

**I am not an expert in most of the things I use in this story, just what I picked up from the interweb and my own imagination. As this is an AU I'm excusing any failures in authenticity as "well that's what happens in my universe." A cheap get out I know, but these are my scribblings and they make me happy.**

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Set in the early 1990's, this is a missing story from Chapter 1 of 'Watersheds' (/s/9616904/1/Watersheds). You may want to read that first.**

**Trigger warning: mentions of cancer**

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><p>"Yes Mum … yes … of course I will ... no, no … well, yes … no I really don't … but Mum, that's not what I want. I don't … no, I haven't … yes, of course I'll be there … no, don't do that … I don't need … I don't need you setting me … yes, of course I remember him … I'm sure he is, but … no Mum … no … I have a boyfriend!" Bridget's head shot up at her friend and flatmates exasperated exclamation. "Yes, I'll ask him. Yes, we'll be there. Bye Mum. Love you. Hug Dad from me."<p>

Mary replaced the phone's receiver on the cradle and released a slow breath, her shoulder's drooping as she slowly turned. A few steps brought her to the flat's sofa where she threw herself down next to her room-mate who had been flicking through an old copy of Cosmopolitan in a vain attempt to find anything of interest.

"Your Mum at it again?"

"How did you guess? My sister, Jackie, is having an eighteenth birthday party. I'm expected to be there. Of course, Mum doesn't want her oldest daughter showing up without a man on her arm. She was trying to set me up with Justin. I mean, Justin for fuck's sake. I've known him since primary school. I mean he's a total sweetheart, and she could easily bully him into being my date, but he'd hate it more than I would. He's one of those blokes who can only commune with his computer. Totally brilliant at programming, but social situations are just not his thing. To be honest, carbon based lifeforms in general freak him out. Give him silicon any day."

Bridget laughed before calming down and resuming her concern at her friend's plight. "So you told her you've got a boyfriend."

Mary coloured "Err, yeah. Probably not my best move. She'll go bonkers when I turn up on my own, then she'll spend the entire evening trying to palm me off on any single male. It'll be a nightmare. God, why did I say it?"

"I could go with you. Say your boyfriend got called away to a family thing and I offered to stand in."

"Thanks, but no. It wouldn't work. She'd just try to find two blokes for us."

Bridget smirked. "Yeah, she'll need luck with that."

Mary snorted a laugh. "Wouldn't stop her trying though. She's one of those women who thinks a lesbian is just a woman who hasn't found the right man yet."

Bridget grimaced. "Oh, one of those. I've got an aunt just the same. What about your Dad? Can't he help?"

"Nah. From long experience he knows not to get between Mum and her matchmaking. She was delighted when I said I wanted to go to University. Thought I'd finally grow into myself as she so charmingly put it. And wanting to be a doctor, in her mind, is just a way to land a wealthy husband with lots of social standing. A nurse would have been better. You know, longing looks over the operating table. All very Mills and Boon. Even so, she could barely control herself when I told her what I wanted to do. Went round all her friends bragging how I was going to land a future Harley Street surgeon."

"So she doesn't know, about you I mean?"

"Oh, she knows. I've told her often enough. She just doesn't understand it."

"What about your sister? Have you told her?"

"Yeah, Jackie knows, as does my older brother, Pete. He understands, Jackie not so much, and my baby sister, Jenny, is only fifteen. She's having a hard enough time understanding hormones and boys without throwing an asexual big sister into the mix."

"So anyone you take is going to be grilled by your Mum and fawned over by your sisters."

"Yep. If I can even find a bloke to go with me. And don't suggest either of the Wankers. Can you imagine Marcus or Andy in a room full of alcohol and teenage girls? It'd be carnage. Mum'ed never forgive me."

"What about John? He'd be perfect. A trainee doctor, charming, good-looking, and guaranteed not to try and get in your knickers at the end of the evening."

"You're right. But he's always so busy."

"Come on girl. Don't bottle it now. Ask him. I'm sure, if there's any way he can make it, he will."

"Alright, alright. You win. I'll ask him. It can't hurt, can it? And if it keeps my Mum off my back it's worth it."

-0-0-0-

John had managed to borrow an ancient VW Beetle from his friend, Phil Warren, for the evening. Parking outside the school hall, John hopped out of the driver's seat, pushing down the button to lock his door before slamming it shut, checking it had actually locked, then moving round to open the passenger door. He offered his hand to assist Mary from the car, before locking the vehicle and pocketing the keys.

"You look beautiful. I'm so glad you asked me to be your escort for the evening. I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

Mary smiled at her friend. "No, thank you. I'm sorry you're having to pretend to be my boyfriend, but my Mum's a rabid matchmaker. I love her to bits, but when it comes to marriage and babies she's a monster."

John grinned. "Don't worry about it. That's what friends are for. I'm delighted to do this for you. You have fun tonight and leave your Mum to me."

"Are you sure John?"

"Of course. Now come along. I want to meet these other Morstans. They must be pretty special to have produced you."

Mary lightly swatted at his arm. "You smoothy. My Mum's gonna love you. Come on, let's get into the warm. I want to show you off."

Hand in hand they walked into the decorated hall. A high pitched squeal was quickly followed by Mary finding her arms full of her over excited youngest sister. "Hello Jenny. Calm down. Anyone'd think you haven't seen me for years instead of just a few weeks."

"How can I calm down? You look gorgeous. As does your boyfriend. Hello, you must be John." The fifteen year old turned on all her adolescent charm as her gaze hungrily devoured the man whose arm had slipped around her older sister's waist.

"Hello Jenny. I'm delighted to meet you. You're looking very glamourous this evening." John temporarily released his hold on Mary to take Jenny's hand and bent his head to place a gentle kiss upon it. Jenny positively glowed at the attention.

Clasping John's hand she dragged him further into the room, unconcerned that Mary was pulled along too. "Come on. Mum's been looking forward to meeting Mary's new boyfriend. She's going to love you." Something about that tone made John feel like a lamb about to be introduced to a tiger.

A small woman, fair haired and in her late forties, turned around when Jenny called out "Mum. Dad. Look who I found."

A tall, silver-grey haired man, glass of red wine in hand, looked over his wife's shoulder at the approaching trio. Obviously well practised in damage limitation, he stepped swiftly past his wife, hand outstretched in greeting. Jenny had dropped John's hand, so John was able to accept, taking the older hand in his own firm grip to shake.

"Hello, I'm Pierre Morstan, Mary's father. This is my darling wife, Theresa."

John took the middle-aged woman's offered hand, lifting it gently to brush his lips to the back in greeting, causing the woman to blush and giggle.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm John Watson. Thank you so much for inviting me."

Before Theresa could commence her interrogation, the sound of breaking glass closely followed by an anguished wail, drew everyone's attention to the far side of the room.

"It's lovely to meet you John, but it sounds like someone needs me. I look forward to having a little chat later." Mrs Morstan threw a determined smile in John's direction before twittering across the room to aid one of her young guests whose dress now hung limp and beer soaked as tears and alcohol fell to the floor in dismal splashes.

Both men's eyes momentarily followed the progress of the lady across the crowded room, before turning back to face each other. Mary returned at that moment with a glass of cola for John and something similar for herself. Having handed John the glass, she stepped closer to the older man, going up on tiptoe to press an affectionate kiss to his cheek, eliciting a happy grin from her father.

"Hello daughter."

"Hello Daddy. Play nice with John. He's one of the good guys." Mary then smiled affectionately at John before disappearing into the melee of guests, leaving the two men alone in the crowd.

"So, you're one of the good guys?"

John smiled a little coyly. "Mary seems to think so."

The older man pondered the response for a moment then nodded his head. "Then she's probably right. She's a pretty good judge of character."

John smiled. "Yeah, that she is."

"So, John, you're one of Mary's flat mates aren't you?"

"Yeah, since the start. There are six of us in the flat, but we mostly ignore two of them. Bridget, Simon, Mary and I get along well. We all keep an eye out for each other and keep the digs going between us, shopping, cooking, cleaning and the like. It's good, nice."

"I'm glad she has good friends. She's mentioned you before you know. Says you're going to join the army."

"Yeah. The Royal Army Medical Corps. It's the least I can do as they're paying a load of my fees."

"So you go straight into the Army once you graduate?"

"That's the plan."

They both took a moment to drink from their respective glasses. Pierre Morstan then looked the younger man in the eye: a look of appraisal, as the older man took the measure of his daughter's supposed suitor.

"Do you love my girl?"

"Of course."

"But are you in love with her?"

John pondered whether to lie, but decided a version of the truth was best. "We're not ready to be in love, but we're good friends. She's caring, and funny, and I cherish the time I spend with her. I would never deliberately hurt her, and she knows if she asks for my help I'll do everything in my power."

"I can't ask for more than that can I?" He watched his oldest daughter laughing with her brother.

"Anyone she gives her heart to will be very lucky," the father declared with affection.

"Yes they will."

It was the first and last time John spoke with Pierre Morstan. The diagnosis of stage 3 bronchioloalveolar carcinoma sixteen years later would result in Mary curtailing her time at the Australian Institute of Tropical Health and Medicine at James Cook University in Cairns.

News of her father's battle with cancer prompted her to move back to the UK where she took a teaching and research post at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Pierre Morstan died six months after her return when treatments failed to halt the disease that ravaged his body.

-0-0-0-

John was dragged away from Pierre and onto the dance floor by the excitable Jackie and Jenny.

Pete turned to his sister, using his beer bottle to gesture at his younger sisters and their latest object of fascination on the dance floor.

"So, John Watson. He's the bloke you talk about. Not the gay one."

"No, that's Simon. He's a darling, training to be an Oncologist. John is going to become a surgeon in the Army."

"Right, and Bridget's the lesbian Cardiologist."

"Oh, so you do listen to me. Yes, Bridget is my room-mate."

"Do I need to have a word? You know, the 'big brother break her heart and I'll kill you' talk?"

"Oh, Pete! You idiot. Thanks for the offer, but it's really not necessary. John's not like that."

"And there's nothing going on anyway. Oh, don't look at me like that. I've got eyes, and I've known you all your life don't forget. And of course, surprising though it may be, I am actually a bloke myself. I know what to look for. He likes you, and he likes women in general, he's charming and friendly, but the way he shies away from any unwanted touching, that gentlemanly way he kisses a woman's hand, not an affectation but a way to maintain distance without ruining the lady's self-confidence. I'm guessing you and he have a lot more in common than a flat and an interest in medicine. Am I right?"

Mary stared at her brother open-mouthed. "When did you become a detective?"

He looked at his sister in surprise and then burst out laughing. "Don't be daft, you little idiot. I'm only looking out for you. Checking out the lads who sniff round my sisters, just like I've always done. It's a big brother's prerogative. This John seems almost too charming. Normally I'd be worried and looking to warm him off, but there's something about him that's just a little different if you look closely enough, and know what to look for. I think John is quite safe."

"Oh, Pete. What will I do with you? If you want to know about John, you ask him yourself. As to scaring him off, don't you dare. He's a good friend and he's doing me a huge favour warding off Mum's matchmaking. She's still going on about me landing a man and having babies. She really thinks that's the be all and end all. It's such an old-fashioned attitude, straight out of the 1950's. She can't accept that's not what I want for my life. Apart from the fact I've wanted to be a doctor for as long as I can remember, I really can't see me ever having kids. It's just not who I am. I don't even know if I'll ever get married."

"Really Mare?"

"Don't look at me like that. Like I'm to be pitied. I'm glad you're married to Maggie and you're already planning kids. It's what you've always wanted. Why is it so hard for my family to accept that that's not for me? It's not what I want, and I can't picture a future for me where it would be. I've got things I want to do with my life, and a husband and 2.4 kids is not part of that."

Pete leant forward to wrap his sister in a hug, pressing her head to his chest and resting his chin on her hair. "Hey, hey! It's alright love. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I know that's what you want. It's not my place to tell you what you want is wrong or to persuade you to change your mind. And it's not wrong if it feels right to you, if it makes you happy. I know full well that being married with kids is not a fulfilling experience for everyone, female or male. I'm not a sexist you know. If we have a daughter, I'd love for her to be free to do whatever she wants, whether that's business, family, or following her Aunt into the big, bad world to be a doctor."

Sniffling a little, Mary looked up at her older brother, giving him a small smile of gratitude.

"Listen Mare, don't worry about Mum. I know she's got her opinions, but she's wrong to push them on to you. I'll do my best to keep her distracted. Let's face it, we're never going to change her mind, but that doesn't mean we have to put up with it. Promise me though, next time you come home, don't bring a fake boyfriend. She'll just have to learn to cope with you being a determined single woman."

"OK Pete, I promise."

"Mind you, if you want to bring John along as a friend, it looks like your little sisters won't mind. And judging by the look on Mum's face, she won't mind either."

Mary looked in horror in the direction her brother was indicating. John had obviously finished dancing with her sisters and was now seated at a table on the opposite side of the hall from the DJ, her mother sitting opposite him sipping wine and looking delighted to have cornered the handsome young man.

Mary made to rescue her "boyfriend" from her mother's clutches, but Pete laid a hand on her arm to halt her.

"Don't. Give them a moment. John looks like he's holding his own quite nicely. Come on, let's get another drink. Then we'll see if he needs rescuing."

Mary cast another worried gaze at the table across the hall before turning back to her brother. Chewing her lip, she came to a decision, nodding her head in acceptance of her brother's suggestion.

"OK. I just hope you're right."

-0-0-0-

John had a fun time dancing with Jackie and Jenny. Then their little party was joined by three or four other teens whose names he didn't catch. He also noticed the glower from some of the young men prowling near the bar. John decided that discretion was the better part of valour, so, when Mrs Morstan came over to re-introduce herself, he excused himself to his disappointed admirers and guided the older lady to a quiet table away from the DJ and the dance floor. He held out her chair for her to sit, and ensured she was happy with her drink before joining her at the table.

"So, you're John Watson. Mary talks about you, you know. Although she never mentioned you were dating."

"No, she wouldn't have. I've found her to be a very private person."

"Yes, she is that. Always had her secrets has our Mary."

"Really? I've never thought her secretive. Just … contained. Not one to speak too much about herself. It's one of the things I like about her. Her composure, and her quiet resilience."

Mrs Morstan looked speculatively at the young man. "You're a strange one Mr Watson."

"Please, call me John."

"In that case, I suppose you can call me Theresa. After all, we're both adults and you're almost family."

John laughed a little uncomfortably. Whilst he had no problem with allowing people to believe whatever they chose about their relationship, he'd already agreed with Mary that he would not out-right lie. Apart from it feeling wrong, he didn't want to make things more difficult for Mary with her family.

"Please Theresa, don't marry your daughter off just yet. It's not what she wants. It's not something of interest to either of us."

Theresa looked at him, trying to size him up.

"So you're not planning a family?"

"No, we're both focussed on our careers at the moment."

"But she'd be such a good mother. I want my little girl to have a family."

"Well, that's not what either of us wants at the moment. We're both more interested in saving lives than creating them."

"Huh, men. You never know what a woman truly wants."

"May be, but I know what your daughter truly wants for her future, and that's to be the best doctor she can be saving as many lives as possible."

"She'll change her mind soon enough."

"Possibly. That's her decision to make, but at the moment she has a clear plan for her life. Don't you think we ought to let her pursue it as she chooses? After all, no-one should have regrets except those of their own making." The smile had never left his face, but his eyes held a steely determination.

Theresa Morstan looked momentarily non-plussed by John's forthright manner. She hadn't spoken to her daughter about anything important in years. Perhaps she was out of touch with her daughter's dreams. But she was confident that, in the long run, she knew what was best for her daughter. Marriage and children would ground her. She could be a GP if she wanted, but in the end the desire for a family would drive out her flighty ideas. If Theresa Morstan knew anything, it was what was best for her daughters.

John took the moment to excuse himself from the table, offering to replenish Theresa's drink. An offer that was declined. He headed for the bar, but detoured when he spotted Mary and her brother just receiving their own drinks order. He took the opportunity to give Mary an update and hopefully garner an introduction to the final member of the Morstan clan.

Mary spotted John as he approached. Her face broke into a relieved smile. Turning to Pete she asked him to order another cola for her friend, before introducing John to her elder brother.

The two men shook hands, neither feeling the need to assert any dominance. Peter trusted his sister's judgement, and his own opinion of the man before him was only positive. John took an instant liking to the tall, blond man before him. Unlike his petite sister, Peter took after his father, tall and broad with a strong handshake and an open expression.

"So you're John Watson."

"Yep, I've been getting that a lot this evening. Mary, you didn't tell me you'd told them about me."

"Sorry John. I've told them stories about Bridget and Simon as well, but you're the only one they've actually met. That makes you a bit unusual."

Pete grinned. "It's good to finally meet one of her infamous flatmates. I know she's tough and can look after herself, but she's still my little sister and I worry about her. It's such a relief to know that you all look out for each other."

John grinned back. "Yeah, we do. We're all good friends. Of course, we don't include the Wankers in that, but even they're not really a problem."

Pete looked confused. "The Wankers?"

Mary giggled. "The other two blokes we flat-share with, Andy and Marcus. They're all about beer and shagging. I can't imagine they'll last much longer given how little work they do. They're normally either drunk or hung over. But like John said, they're not a problem. We've got them well trained."

"Well that's alright then. I s'pose. And you John, not into beer and shagging?"

Mary looked shocked and then angry at her brother's impolite question. John looked a little taken aback before bursting into laughter. "Beer occasionally, in moderation. Other members of my family do not have a good relationship with alcohol so I'm wary. As to shagging, no, as I think you've already guessed, that's not for me. In fact, it was Mary who helped me with that. It was how our friendship started actually, trying to work out why my sexual desires seemed a little … skewed from the norm. Although I'd appreciate if you kept that private. Yeah, Mary's been great, really supportive, and we've become good mates. So don't worry big brother, you know she'll always be safe with me."

John held out his hand. Pete grinned and shook the smaller man's in an offer of friendship. The agreement was made. Pete knew that, as long as John was around, his sister would be protected whether she wanted it or not. What more could any older brother ask for.

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><p><strong>So you know, based upon the outcome of my previous stories in this series, 'Watersheds' and 'Trefoil', I did some digging on how I see my characters identifying, even though, as John says, "I soon learned that the labels were actually pretty meaningless. I am John Hamish Watson and I am who I am."<strong>

**In the story, John identifies himself as biromantic – the non-sexual aspect of bisexuality.**

**Based on John's diagnosis, which Sherlock agrees with, Sherlock identifies as demiromantic - he may feel romantic attraction once a reasonably stable or strong emotional connection has been created. However he hates to be touched by those he has no romantic attraction to except by the very few he has an established strong emotional connection with. This includes Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Although his main area of casual interest in the past has been men, he now includes Mary in his sphere of romantic attraction.**

**Throughout the story Mary identifies herself as asexual or under more recent definitions, largely heteroromantic - "If you were to ask on the Kinsey scale I'm probably about a 2. I'm predominantly interested in men, but can be attracted to a woman. I have no interest in sexual intercourse."**

**As I said, I have no actual experience with this and have based this on internet research, but this is how I want my characters to be for the purposes of this story arc. If I've got anything badly wrong then please let me know.**

**If you wish to comment, I would love to hear from you. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.**

**Don't forget to follow me on tumblr as awomaninvisible**


	2. Angola - btwn Watersheds Chpt 1 & 2

**Mary begins her time with Médecins Sans Frontières**

**Takes place between chapters 1 and 2 of 'Watersheds' (/s/9616904/1/Watersheds) filling in some of Mary's story.**

**Trigger warning: famine, disaster area, mentions stillbirth, mentions death in childbirth**

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><p>2002 found Mary packed onto a transport plane flying into Luanda International Airport, Angola. The cabin was crowded and noisy with one of the first waves of aid workers flying in to help the starving communities ripped apart by war and famine. They would be assigned to teams and distributed about the country to provide medical care to the sick and dying.<p>

She could hear some of her travel companions were excited, expecting thrills and adventures. Others were obviously nervous of what they would find, either being too loud and boisterous, or sitting, introverted, losing themselves in their own minds.

Mary kept her own council. She knew there would be no thrills, no adventure, just heartbreak and sorrow while the aid agencies distributed food to keep the population alive as best they could until the rains came. This is what she had trained so hard for, completing all her necessary studies and her Diploma in Tropical Medicine from the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Once her six months in Angola were over, she would be heading to Ho Chi Minh City in Viet Nam to join the Oxford University Clinical Research Unit there, researching infectious diseases. She just had to get through this six months.

The landing was hard, stepping into Africa's searing heat was even harder. Collecting her heavy back pack she waited to be allocated to one of the buses that would ferry them to their next location.

Someone nudged her shoulder. "We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

Turning to face the man who'd invaded her space, but too tired for anger, she was prepared to give him a dirty look. Instead her expression softened as she looked up into smiling brown eyes and a cheeky grin.

"Hi, I'm Chuck Stewart, from the US, like you couldn't guess."

"Mary … Morstan from London. That's in England."

The towering brunette belted out what could only be described as a guffaw. "Yep, I deserved that. I apologise for my country folk who know nothing of the world. I however, do have a passing knowledge of global geography. For example, I know Angola is one of a growing number of countries in the continent of Africa."

Mary smiled back, stifling a laugh. "Good to know. I'll know who to rely on if we get lost."

Chuck grinned back. "Hell girl. I like you. I was sitting next to a damn tight-ass on the plane. Didn't talk or anything. Just read a book the whole way here. I'm stoked to meet someone with some spunk."

Mary found she liked this brash American. He was all bonhomie and sass. An appealing combination.

They were directed to a half empty bus, where they squished onto the small bench seat just big enough for two, their packs on their laps. Being a little over five foot four, Mary struggled to see anything but the side of her backpack as it spent the journey wedged between the seat in front and her face. It didn't stop her animated conversation with Chuck.

He was born in Toledo, graduated from Stanford, moving to San Francisco to practice Family Medicine. Being a gay man, San Francisco seemed the place to be with its reputation for openness and acceptance. He'd created a life for himself there with friends and lovers. Being a doctor, and cautious, he'd been careful who he slept with, preferring relationships over hook-ups. It probably saved his life as AIDS ravaged the community. Unfortunately many of his friends and acquaintances were less fortunate. With little known of the disease that had swept through the City by the Bay, taking gay and straight alike, Chuck had decided to change his life and help others, as he could not help his friends and could no longer bare to watch them die. He began to volunteer for MSF. This was his fifth assignment, starting in 1994 with Rwanda. He'd seen human despair caused by war, famine and disease, and still he wanted to help.

Mary told him that this was her first time out, but she wanted to specialise in tropical medicine and volunteering for MSF had been recommended as a way to get much needed 'on the ground' experience. She hadn't expected to make many friends, having been warned that many of the volunteers, in their down time, released the tension with casual sex and 'disaster romances'. Since that was not of interest to her, she'd fully expected to spend much of her time alone, with the men uninterested in a woman who wouldn't put out, and most of the women viewing her with suspicion. It was what she had experienced throughout her adult life, outside her small sphere of close friends. She saw no reason for it to be any different here.

Chuck bumped her shoulder again. "Hey kid. I'm gay. I don't want your body, and I'm certainly not looking for a, what did you call it? A disaster romance."

"Yeah, like a holiday romance, but a lot less picturesque."

"Sounds gross. Lets you and me buddy up. Watch each other's backs. Keep the vultures at bay. What'd'ya say?"

"Sounds like a plan to me."

-0-0-0-

They'd been driven for hours over unmade roads through what looked like desert. Only the acacia trees and the skeletons of both wild and farm animals showed that this had once been a thriving ecosystem.

They arrived at a sprawling complex of huts made of wood, mud and corrugated iron, surrounded by a sea of tents. The stench of death and decay was everywhere. The only sounds were the buzzing of flies and the distraught wails of women. Mary could see children, so many children, their bones visible through their skin and their bellies distended by malnutrition. She was used to the noise children made. How they laughed and shrieked. Here they were eerily silent, watching the progress of the convoy of vehicles with sad, despairing eyes, unable to muster the energy to swat the flies that swarmed around their faces as they stood on legs so wasted it was a wonder they could support them.

Neither she nor Chuck were laughing now. Once she had accepted the horror before her, her mouth became a thin line of grim determination. She would do everything she could to help these people. They were not subjects or work experience, they were human beings in desperate need of help to survive. Help she could give.

She was billeted in the women's quarters, allocated a bunk and given an orientation tour of the encampment. Water and food were strictly rationed with priority water use for drinking and maintaining cleanliness in the hospital. The hospital itself was situated in the mud brick buildings she had seen on the way in. There was a clinic, and a series of wards for the most desperately ill. A feeding station operated out of the tent next door.

Taking a moment to unpack her possessions and organise her bunk, Mary headed to the mess tent to grab some refreshment with the other newbies. She spotted Chuck amongst the twenty or so people seated at the tables, and made her way over to him. Spotting her, he shuffled his bum along the bench to make room for her to sit. He grabbed a tin mug from a stack in the middle of the table and offered her some water from a jug. A tired looking woman dumped a bowl of some kind of porridge or oatmeal in front of each of them. This was obviously lunch. Grabbing spoons they dug in hungrily, well aware that this was the only food available until the evening, and considerably more than the poor devils outside had to eat. Mary knew it would be easy to feel guilty about the luxury of three meals a day when children were starving to death mere yards away, but she knew all too well that she needed to stay strong and healthy to be effective.

A loud banging from the front of the room drew almost everyone's attention to a tall, blond, bear of a man. His face was stern and his arms crossed across his chest as he surveyed the room.

"Welcome. I am Dr Illarion Borodin. I am the senior administrator of this camp. My decision is final. There is no room here for freelancing or showing off. You do what you are told by your supervisor, no questions. You obey the rules. Any infraction will see you sent home. This is a disaster area not a holiday resort. I'm sure I do not need to tell you that food and water are strictly rationed. Exceeding your rations is theft and will not be tolerated. I know, as doctors, your first feeling is to save lives. Understand this, food and drugs are strictly limited. Each dose is carefully measured and accounted for. It will be hard, when you see babies dying and mothers pleading for your help, but the rules are there for a reason. Giving more than the prescribed amount of food, water or medication will not help your patient, and may well harm your next patient by depriving them of essential supplies. It will not be easy, but you must stand firm. We have over two thousand people outside needing our help. Many will die, some are already beyond saving. It will tear you apart, but breaking the rules will not help them. Only slow, methodical treatment can save these people until they are able to look after themselves. If you have any questions, ask your supervisor or myself."

Suddenly, Dr Borodin broke into a small smile and his hands dropped to his hips.

"Now, I have scared the bee-jeezus out of you, let me introduce myself properly." His pronunciation was a little heavy as his Russian accent mangled some of the words. "I have been with MSF for seven years. This is not my first rodeo and it will not be my last. For many of you this is your first time and it will hit you hard. You will want to sneak your rations to starving children, you will feel guilty at every mouthful of food and every drop of water, you will want to work every hour to help just one more child. I tell you now, don't. You need to stay healthy if you want to help. If you get sick you become part of the problem. Take your medications, use your mosquito nets, eat your rations, and drink your water. Sleep and relax when you can. If you feel yourself getting overwhelmed or see a colleague suffering, let me know. We don't need you breaking down. It helps no-one. There is no shame in asking for help, and if you need to leave then so be it. We will not blame you. This is hard for anyone. I spent twelve years in the army, first for the Soviet Union and then for the Russian Federation. I have been in war zones, and I can tell you, this is easily as bad, if not worse, than any war I have seen. Do not think any less of yourself if you struggle. I tell you now, you will have nightmares, you will feel guilt, and you will feel anger and despair. It is natural. It is expected. There are people here who are trained to help you, but you must trust us." Finally he clapped his hands together to bring the meeting to a close. "You have each been allocated to a supervisor. When we call your name, make your way over to them. You start tomorrow. In at the deep end. Take the time tonight to sleep and recover from your journey. Tomorrow the hard work begins. Goodnight."

-0-0-0-

Dr Borodin was not lying when he said it was hard work. Chuck and Mary spent the evenings when they weren't on duty talking, reading or playing cards in the mess tent. They had been there about a month when the administrator entered the tent, taking a moment to scan its occupants before making his way over to the duo.

"Good evening. May I join you?"

Mary patted the bench next to her. "Here you go doctor. Take a pew."

"A pew?"

"A seat. I mean, yes, please join us."

"Thank you." The blond looked a little uncomfortable, not quite sure what to do or say next. Chuck solved the problem sticking out one of his great paws in a handshake.

"As we haven't been formally introduced, hi, I'm Chuck Stewart, from America."

Dr Borodin smiled a little uncertainly before shaking the offered hand.

Mary stuck her hand out in the direction of her boss. "Hello. I'm Mary Morstan, from England. It's a pleasure to work with you Dr Borodin."

Shaking the small hand, Dr Borodin smiled a little more. "A pleasure to meet you both. Please, call me Illarion, or if you prefer, Illy."

Chuck grinned, his face open and welcoming. "Nice to make your acquaintance Illy. Can I get you a cup of water?"

"Thank you, yes."

And so Illy became the third part of their little group. Over the next few weeks, as they became more familiar and relaxed with each other, Illy's story came out in dribs and drabs. He was born in Ukraine near Donetsk. His intelligence had soon ear-marked him for higher education and becoming a doctor seemed to fit his natural talents. After graduation he was conscripted as a doctor in the Soviet Army, being deployed to an active warzone for the first time in Afghanistan in 1988. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, Illy stayed in the army, fighting for the Russian Federation. He'd have preferred to return to Ukraine, but his young wife was from St Petersburg and she wanted to remain close to her family as her husband was often on deployment. Illy had seen action in the Georgian Civil War and Chechnya. It was in the summer of 1996, whilst we was based in Grozny, that his life took a dramatic turn.

His wife, Galina, was expecting their first child, due that October. Illy wanted to be at home, but was trapped in the base in Grozny by Chechen rebels who had infiltrated the city. The fighting was brutal, and it was the civilians who paid the price. Unable to identify the Chechen fighters, Russian troops were ordered to round up 'collaborators' from the civilian population in the city, torturing them for information before executing them. Threats and ultimatums were traded between the Russian and the rebel forces. Terrified, the remaining civilians tried to flee the city as it was bombarded, destroying homes and damaging a hospital. The refugees struggled from their homes in straggling columns, seeking refuge from the warring factions outside the city, only to be decimated by artillery fire. It was only after the ceasefire at the end of August that Illy was allowed to leave the base to treat the wounded. He was greeted by scenes of carnage that turned his stomach.

With his wife due imminently and fresh relief troops arriving, Illy's commanding officer ordered him home. He finally arrived in St Petersburg on 13th October to be told by a neighbour that his wife had been rushed to hospital. Arriving, tired and nearly out of his mind with worry at the Saint-Petersburg Paediatric Medical Institute he found his life devastated. His wife had undiagnosed placenta praevia. When she had gone into labour she had begun to haemorrhage. Had they known of her condition, a caesarean delivery before her labour began could have saved her and the child. As it was, both died within minutes of each other. Illy kissed his wife goodbye and held his beautiful daughter they had chosen to name Irina, meaning peace. His life was in ruins.

He became depressed, drinking heavily and threatening suicide. He was lucky not to be hospitalised in a psychiatric institution. As it was, Galina's devastated family rallied round him, holding him together while he was quietly discharged from the army, too unstable to continue.

He needed to do something. He needed to make a difference, and he needed to get away from Russia. When a colleague suggested offering his services to a humanitarian aid organisation he jumped at the chance. And so began his time with MSF.

Illy had no interest in womanising with the young female doctors and nurses who passed through his camps. He had responsibility for their well-being, and anyway, there would never be another for him. He loved his Galina and would be faithful to her until death. However, he often found himself isolated by his position, and the loneliness of his loss. It was pleasant to be able to relax in friendly company with none of the expectations that normally occurred in such a group.

-0-0-0-

Over the course of a month or so, they'd exhausted almost every topic of conversation, book, and card game they could think of, including the strangely named pinochle that every American seemed familiar with, but the rest of the world knew nothing about. Wracking their brains for other sources of amusement, Mary muttered wistfully that it was a shame they didn't have a dart board.

"Dart board?" Illy was confused.

"Yes, little arrows that you throw at a board on the wall. You have three darts per go. You score different points depending where you hit on the board. The idea is to get to three hundred and one before your opponents. It's very popular in British pubs."

"Yes, I think I've heard of it. How about, as we do not have a dart board, we use knives instead?"

Chuck looked a little bemused. "You mean throw knives instead of darts?"

Illy nodded. "Yes. I'm very good. I can teach you. It's not difficult, even for women. It's all about skill not strength. I have my knives we can use. I carry them for protection, but we can use them for this. I'd prefer to use them for fun. It is a better use for them than killing."

And that was how, for the remainder of her six month deployment, Mary laughed, learnt to play pinochle, was lectured extensively on the difference between Russian and Polish vodka, became an expert on the rules of American football and baseball, and learnt to swear fluently in both Russian and Ukrainian with a smattering of Chechen. She also became relatively fluent in conversational Portuguese and Bantu, the better to talk to her patients, some of who recovered and grew strong, but too many of whom slipped away as quiet bundles of skin and bone.

Ho Chi Minh City seemed like an alien world after Angola. She'd bid a fond farewell to Illy when she left their aid station, and she'd tearfully parted from Chuck at Luanda airport where she boarded her flight to Viet Nam via Australia.

* * *

><p><strong>I've obviously never worked in a humanitarian aid camp, so I've made a stab at what it's like, the feelings aid workers must go through, and the hardships they endure both mental and physical. If I've got anything wildly wrong, please let me know and I'll correct it.<strong>

**The 'casual sex and disaster romances' was a guess having been completely hooked on M*A*S*H in my youth.**

**My version of the battle of Grozny has been pieced together from accounts on various websites. I apologise if it is inaccurate.**

**My sister suffered placenta praevia and was hospitalised for 6 weeks before the birth of her child. We discussed at length what could have happened if she'd been left undiagnosed or if she went into labour prematurely.**

**Reviews are always welcome. I'd love to know what you think.**


	3. Floods - re:Watersheds Chapter 3

**Set 5 months before Sherlock's return.**

**You're never to old for a shoulder to cry on.**

* * *

><p>It was the "Shit, shit, fucking shit." followed by a very loud nose blow that alerted Mary to the problem. She was walking past the ladies loos en route to the library, her laptop and handbag over her shoulder and the latest copy of the British Medical Journal tucked under her arm.<p>

Pushing open the door Mary was confronted by a dishevelled and red eyed Melanie Stevens who was glowering at her reflection in the mirror as she tried to salvage the remains of her makeup, tears still washing it down her reddened cheeks.

"Melanie, do you need help?" She didn't ask if she was OK, because it was fairly clear that her student most definitely was not.

Melanie turned, shocked that someone had discovered her. She dabbed frantically at her still tearful eyes and looked desperately for an escape. "Professor! Sorry. It's fine, I'm fine. Really. It's nothing. Allergies."

Mary gave an exasperated sigh. "Melanie, do you really think you can bluff an expert in tropical medicine that you are suffering from allergies? And you are clearly not fine. What on earth has upset you? Is it Declan?"

Melanie and Declan O'Riordan were notorious for their on-off relationship, loud arguments and even louder make-up sessions. They were one of those couples that formed the focus of the IT crowd, and who thrived on the confrontation in their relationship. Despite both being close to thirty, and being highly intelligent and skilled doctors, when it came to each other they behaved like stroppy teenagers, bringing out the worst in each other and their small but intimate circle of friends.

Melanie sniffed loudly and used the already sodden wodge of tissue to wipe at her nose. "It's alright Professor. It's just, you know, relationships." That seemed to tip Melanie's emotional balance as she doubled over and began sobbing again.

Mary hung her bags on the hook by the door and tucked her BMJ into the side pocket of the laptop bag, unwilling to risk it to any of the surfaces in the public toilet. It looked like she was unlikely to make it to the library today. With a sigh she stepped forward and took Melanie's shoulders, guiding her backwards into one of the cubicles.

Flipping down the toilet lid and giving it a cursory glance for cleanliness, Mary guided the young woman to sit on the closed loo, while she grabbed another handful of toilet roll to mop up the latest deluge of tears, snot and saliva. Understanding anything that came from the distraught woman was nigh impossible, so Mary settled for making consoling noises and rubbing her back until she calmed down. It took 20 minutes of tears and wailing before Melanie finally cried herself out.

"Now Melanie, do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

"It's … it's Declan. He was laughing with Seb and Rahjit. Making comments about me, how I look, what I'm like in bed, that kind of thing. Talking about me like I was a possession, not a person. Those things are private, between us, and he was boasting to his friends about it. Then he started going on about how he was going to get me pregnant as soon as we were married. How he's going to set me up in a cottage in Wiltshire surrounded by babies while he works in some Government research facility down there. Apparently his dad's already lined him up with the job."

Mary sighed. "And I take it this is not what you want."

Melanie wailed again. "NOOOO! We've never discussed marriage let alone children. He's just taking me for granted and I hate it. He knows I want to do research overseas. Maybe volunteer for humanitarian aid. See the world. How … how could I have been so wrong about him? He's just another sexist pig."

"Hmmm, well, I can't really comment, but it sounds like you two need to have a serious talk about expectations and appropriate behaviour. You have the right to do what you want with your life, not bend to the will of someone else just because of sex."

"But I don't want to end up alone. I'm almost thirty already. I don't know if I want children, but I don't want to leave it too late."

"Oh dear girl. Children are not the be all and end all, and if you're not sure you can always have some eggs frozen, should you change your mind at a later date. Also, don't forget the wonderful invention of the sperm donor. Don't marry someone just because they're available and you're scared of the future. Work out what you want and go from there. It's your life and they're your dreams. A very wise friend of mine once told my mother that 'no-one should have regrets except those of their own making.' A sentiment I wholeheartedly agree with."

"But it's OK for you. You're engaged."

"I am. To a wonderful man who I love very much. But that doesn't mean I didn't pursue my dreams, as he pursued his."

"Don't you regret it though, giving up children to have a career?"

"No. Not at all. I didn't give up anything. I've never wanted children, and John's perfectly fine with that."

"So, if he suddenly said he wanted children?"

"That's not going to happen. We talked everything through very early in our relationship. We both went in knowing what we wanted, and especially, what we didn't want. We also know that we trust and respect each other, which means I trust him not to boast about personal information, just as he trusts me not to. We have an equal partnership."

Melanie sniffed, dabbing the ball of tissues to her nose.

"So what do I do?"

"Well, that's up to you, but if it were me, I'd have a long hard think about what I truly want in life. Remember it's not an either or. It's possible to have children with a successful career or without a husband. It's what you want that matters. Then I'd think about what I want out of any potential partner, then I'd have a long talk with Declan. If that means dumping his sorry arse, then do it. Possibly in front of Seb and Rahjit, just to drive the message home. Not that I'm telling you what to do, of course. I'm just saying, if it was me, that's what I'd probably do." Mary felt a twinge of guilty embarrassment. She knew Declan liked to be the big man, but his behaviour towards Melanie won him no prizes in Mary's eyes.

For the first time since Mary entered the loo, Melanie gave a small smile. As she thought about what Mary had said, her face slowly developed a look of determination.

"Thank you Professor. You've been a great help. I s'pose I've got a lot to think about."

Mary watched as the puffy faced but resolute woman gathered her things, gave the Professor a grateful smile, then headed out into the corridor, still sniffing and dabbing at her nose, but with her shoulders back and her head held high.

Two days later the talk of the campus was how Mel had very publicly denounced Declan in front of his crowd of cronies as a "selfish, mysoginist pig who didn't deserve a woman like her." How he was a pervert who talked her into doing things she didn't want to do and then bragged about them. And how he could "shove his 'perfect life in the West Country' up his sexist arse." Apparently the determined Mel's parting shot was how he needed "a brain-dead trophy wife, not a brilliant, intelligent, and frankly gorgeous woman like me."

Mary smiled, then placed the information about the University of Oxford Centre for Tropical Medicine and Global Health into an envelope addressed to Dr M. Stevens. She included a post it note reading "If you're serious about this, or MSF, I'd be happy to talk to you. I've got contacts. – Prof M. Morstan. PS – nicely done!"


	4. Sherlock meets Martha and Seb

**Sherlock has used a spurious diagnosis of sociopathy to keep people at arms' length since he was 15. Now we follow him through Florida and to university.**

**Set between 1995 and 1996, this covers Sherlock's time in Florida, the start of his University years, and his meeting with Sebastian Wilkes (TBB). There is reference to events in 'Trefoil' chapter 3. Mycroft's sage wisdom refers to upcoming chapters in 'Ensemble' starting with chapter 2.**

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Trigger warning: mention of domestic abuse, mention of serial killer, sexual activity**

* * *

><p>It was expected that Sherlock would attend university. With his intelligence and need to keep his mind busy, it was a foregone conclusion. The question was, which one would best suit the troubled young man.<p>

Mycroft had spent the previous five years indoctrinating the angst ridden teenager with his own newly acquired pontifications: "caring is not an advantage", "alone is what protects us", "love is a chemical defect found on the losing side", "all hearts are broken." At first Sherlock had ignored his older brother. He was too busy developing his mind palace, conducting strange experiments in the garden shed, playing pirates with his younger brother, and running around the countryside with his red setter collecting specimens to study. In his fifteenth year his world fell apart, and, against his own better judgement, Mycroft's sage 'wisdom' began to strike a chord with the devastated teenager, still reeling from losing both his beloved Grand-mère, and his constant companion, Redbeard. Even his younger brother, Linley, could not pierce the shell of isolation that Sherlock had created for himself. The malicious diagnosis of sociopath his vengeful psychiatrist had labelled him with in revenge for exposing the emotional abuse of his own children had proven a lifeline. It kept others at a distance, and allowed him to indulge in the worst excesses of his own personality. He wallowed in his isolation and perceived abnormality. His own lack of sexual interest in others only reinforcing the words Mycroft whispered in his ear like some all-knowing pedagogue.

It was Mycroft who forced Sherlock's hand in choice of university. His grades and intellect were more than enough to ensure a place at the most prestigious of colleges. Oxbridge was a certainty. Mummy and Daddy urged their middle son to follow his older brother into Oxford. Had Sherlock known his brother's own distaste at the suggestion, he would perhaps have considered it, if only to spite his overbearing older sibling. As it was, he wanted as much distance from Mycroft as possible. He also craved modernity. A medieval college with all its history and tradition was not for him. In the end he chose Churchill College, Cambridge, as much for its high proportion of science students as its modernist architecture.

However, first Sherlock needed to get away. To leave his parent's home and strike out on his own. He chose America for his gap year, only because it was new and shiny in comparison with the stifling history and traditions of Europe. He hoped to find a freshness of spirit in a country that boasted it's place as the land of freedom and opportunity.

So he arrived in New York with high hopes. What he found was that people are much the same the world over. Power and privilege still held sway over the masses. Instead of the British old school tie, it was Ivy League college alma maters and fraternity allegiences. Instead of a family pedigree stretching back to the Norman Conquest, it was the colour of your skin and the size of your bank balance.

And on the streets the poor were still poor, even more so when health care was not a right, but a privilege. The homeless were still homeless, and crimes and evil intent were much the same as anywhere else.

Sherlock made his way down the east coast, supplementing his meagre budget with cash-in-hand manual labour and solving the odd problem for grateful strangers.

By the time he reached Florida, local new reports were beginning to show a worrying trend. It appeared that there was a serial killer on the loose, but, because the deaths were spread over two states and several jurisdictions, no-one had noticed. Young women and men, found bound, beaten and dumped along I95. All were homeless or, at least, itinerant. The killer had no preference for race, gender or sexual orientation. It was age and body type that were the attraction. 18-25 years, tall, slender, blond, whether natural or dyed. A visit to the public library in Jacksonville and several hours with newspapers archives enabled Sherlock to identify seventeen potential victims over a five year period.

Sherlock ruminated on what little he knew as he continued to hitch-hike south, finally arriving at Fort Lauderdale. It was here it met a charming lady from Welwyn Garden City called Martha. She'd come over from London with her husband, Albert, nearly twenty years before. She still provided some of the entertainment in her husband's club. Her age now made her act more of a niche attraction, dancing a bored seduction in the late afternoon for older punters as they drank their cares away before a younger clientele began the more lucrative evening trade. Most of her time was spent coaching the new girls in the right moves to attract big tips, and doing the accounts in the cramped back office that also served as her dressing room. Martha offered him a job washing dishes in the kitchen, with a bed in the tiny loft above the office. Sherlock saw no reason not to accept.

Albert was scum. Sherlock took an instant and visceral dislike to the man. He was too quick with his temper and his fists, and he had no qualms about groping his tall, skinny, blond dancers as and when he chose. 'Big Al' as he liked to be known, claimed to have ties to the London Mob, and to have been an enforcer for the Cray Twins. He certainly had a lot of dealings with organised crime in Florida. Sherlock found evidence of money laundering, drug running and prostitution, but he needed more. When he'd found Martha in tears in her pokey back room after her husband had humiliated her and dragged her from the club floor by her hair in front of a room full of punters, he'd offered her a way out and a promise of a better life if she would help him bring her husband down. With her help he matched Albert's frequent business trips through Florida and Georgia with the dates of the murders. With his help, Martha persuaded her husband to move a considerable percentage of his personal assets into her name, for his legal protection and extra tax breaks. When Sherlock had first proposed the subterfuge she'd argued that it was dirty money, coming from crime. Sherlock had swiftly convinced her that, when they were successful, she would need the money to rebuild her life. Putting it to good use in London was far better than it sitting in a police evidence locker in Florida whilst she struggled to earn a living. She had, after all, earnt it herself through the hardest means.

It took a while. Sherlock spent each day in the kitchen, washing the plates and dishes, whilst rebuffing the advances of both the male and female staff who thought the pretty boy in an apron who wore sweat so well would make a pleasant diversion. A few choice words and a surly snarl were usually enough to dissuade all but the most enthusiastic. If all else failed, the spray hose in the sink soon doused an admirer's ardour, and their shoes.

One night, Sherlock was curled up for the night in his loft. It was the early hours of the morning and, as usual, sleep eluded the young man, not that he was particularly bothered. He preferred to use the quiet after the club had closed to reorganise his Mind Palace, one of the few useful and positive things Mycroft had ever taught him.

A noise from the office beneath him caught his attention. At first he thought it was an intruder making for the large safe that loomed, conspicuously, in the corner of the room; the safe used daily by Martha to secure the ledgers and the takings. Listening intently it became obvious that the intruder was focusing their attention on the opposite wall to the safe. Sherlock knew from long hours in the room chatting with Martha about England, that there was nothing on that side of the room save some coat hooks, a rack of Martha's costumes, a ratty sofa and side table, and a wall full of photos of Albert with various celebrities, from both the criminal and entertainment industries.

Pride of place amongst the many framed portraits was a large photo of a beaming Al with his arm thrown round the shoulders of a rather bemused looking Frank Sinatra. Martha had once explained that they had bumped into the star on a rare vacation in Las Vegas. Really, Al had gone to negotiate some business and needed his wife as cover for his activities. The singer had been leaving a nightclub when he had quite literally run into them. Sinatra had posed politely, as he would with any fan, before his body guards shooed them, none to gently, away. Al had arranged for the photo to be enlarged and framed, boasting about his good friend Frank and their get together one weekend in Vegas. It warmed Sherlock's heart when Martha giggled about her brutish husband's star-struck silliness. He swore to himself that she would have a life where she could laugh all day if she chose.

The sounds from the office beneath him continued. Something, possibly a ledger, had been placed on the desk. Listening carefully Sherlock could hear the rustle of paper turning, the snip of scissors and the rip of sticky tape. Finally the ledger was closed with the distinctive thump of a large book, then silence before the subtle clink of steel upon steel and the whizz of a tumbler being spun. A final faint bump, then the door was closed.

Listening intently, there were no further sounds save the usual night-time symphony of the neighbourhood.

Sherlock lay still, replaying the noises he had heard, trying to piece together the actions that had created them. It did not take long for him to realise he was an idiot. There was no way an accomplished criminal like Al would trust anyone, least of all his regularly brutalised wife, with unfettered access to his complete business, especially his criminal dealings. Anyway, in the unlikely event of a police raid, it would have been foolish in the extreme to keep details of his deals with organised crime in that large, elderly, exceedingly eye-catching safe that dominated the corner of the office.

There had to be another safe. One that held the secrets of Big Al and his true business empire. One that was, perhaps, hidden behind an overblown photo of Frank Sinatra hung above a ratty old sofa on an otherwise non-descript wall hung with self-aggrandising photos.

Taking advantage of one of Al's business trips a few days later, Sherlock and Martha carefully opened the safe. The combination was simple, probably because Al assumed no-one would ever know to look for it. Inside the wall safe were cash, passports with Al's photo in several false names, details of a couple of bank accounts, the current year's true business ledger, and a large, well-thumbed hunting journal. The journal drew Sherlock's attention, since Al was no hunter. Opening the book revealed exactly how much of a hunter Big Al actually was, and his preferred prey. Inside were page after page of sickening polaroids, detailed notes and taped in trophies from Big Al's reign of terror along the I95.

Sherlock sent Martha to the bank to empty her account by wiring it all to an account in London, before she could stumble across the evidence of her husband's hobby. In the mean-time Sherlock called the nearest field office of the FBI to report the identity of an inter-state serial killer, requesting the immediate dispatch of field agents to their location. Using a pair of Martha's silk gloves to protect the journal from fingerprints, he flicked through the pages, reading out names, dates and locations over the phone, until the FBI had no choice but to believe him. When agents arrived and began to review the evidence presented to them by a teary Martha, they couldn't believe their luck. Extensive details of the operation of the local crime syndicate plus a serial killer. It was a career maker.

Sherlock had slunk quietly into the background, having removed a great deal of cash from the wall safe. He packed the stacks of bills into a cardboard box, sealing it tight before slipping out of the back into the ally. He went to the nearest FedEx office, shipping the package to his parent's house, with a note to leave the package, unopened, in his room pending his imminent return.

The trial of Albert Hudson was a sensation. It had murder, the Mob, drugs and exotic dancers. It also had a large photo of Frank Sinatra. Al tried to get a deal for leniency if he informed on his criminal contacts. The highly detailed records he'd left in the safe were more than enough evidence to proceed against his accomplices without the dubious word of the murderer of twenty two young people. Martha Hudson was cleared of all complicity in her husband's crimes and was allowed to return home to England. She was accompanied on her journey by a gangly, pale-skinned boy with strangely coloured eyes and a head of dark curls. The boy held her hand with tender care in the taxi, at the airport, and squeezed it gently in reassurance as the plane took off, heading across the Atlantic for a home she had not seen in two decades.

That there was a bank account and a box of dollar bills waiting to ease her way helped calm her nerves. There was also a framed photo of Ol' Blue Eyes, this time on stage at Caesar's Palace; a small reminder of his part in the 'Liberation of Mrs Hudson'.

-0-0-0-

And so it was, in the autumn of 1996, that Sherlock Holmes entered his self-contained room in the student accommodation of Churchill College, Cambridge. He had chosen to read Natural Sciences so that he did not have to specialise in chemistry alone. Concentrating on one subject would have been torture to his agile mind. Cambridge, with its unique approach, gave the opportunity to indulge his interests in a broad spectrum of subjects including biology, pharmacology and even pathology. His one fear, boredom, would hopefully be kept at bay.

Also kept at bay were the other students. His surly demeanour and sharp tongue ensured his continued isolation from his fellow students; a situation that suited him admirably. If anyone did persist in straying too close, his observations and deductions about their most intimate secrets soon sent them scuttling away, although it did earn him a few encounters with irate meat heads who preferred to make their arguments with their fists and, in one case, a well-aimed boot. But, on the whole, Sherlock was left in peace to continue his solitary life, only mixing with others during lectures or when he remembered to eat, wandering in to the formal hall, finding a quiet corner, and nibbling sporadically at his food as his nose remained buried in a book.

It was there that Sebastian Wilkes, his most persistent tormentor, liked to continue his niggling attack at Sherlock's defenses. Like a midge, he would buzz and hover, only moving in to sting with well-placed barbs when he was ready. He tormented by highlighting Sherlock's difference from the norm, labelling him a freak and goading him, usually over Sherlock's rare appearances at breakfast, to expose who had been shagging whom the previous night. It not only maintained Sherlock's isolation from those who might have become his colleagues, if not friends, but also highlighted his lack of practical knowledge of all things sexual. His knowledge of the theoretical was incredibly broad. He had, after all, spent several months working in a strip club that covered for a prostitution ring, however Sherlock had no interest in the practicalities and unfortunately, this lack of experience showed. Sherlock's retaliatory deductions to Sebastian's attacks unknowingly provided the Management Studies student with valuable information with which to further his own future ambitions. Wilkes was not above a spot of coercion, if not outright blackmail, to achieve his ambitions.

Occasionally, he would approach Sherlock quietly, as he sat in Library, sidling up and throwing his arm around Sherlock's shoulders as he tried to wheedle further information about both students and fellows out of the man. It took six months, but finally Sebastian pushed too far. By now, Sherlock was well aware of the man's tactics and how he had been manipulated into playing the game through his own naivety.

"Come on mate. You can tell me. You know I can help you. Keep dear Cassandra's rugger-bugger boyfriend and his mates away from you so you don't take a beating. After all, announcing in formal that he'd allowed her to shag him up the arse with a dildo was perhaps not quite politic old man."

"You manipulated me into that. I didn't say anything, merely that they both looked exhausted, probably from excessive sexual activity, and that he was suffering from a tender backside and a newly acquired limp. It was you, Sebastian, who announced to the hall what activity had probably caused his injuries."

"Come on, we're mates. Call me Seb. And I didn't manipulate you into anything. I just opened the door and you walked yourself right through, leaving the way clear for me to finish the story off."

"Yes. And for you to walk away scot free, while I am blamed for exposing their activities. Just stay away from me Seb. I have no interest in your attempts to ingratiate your way into the boardroom of your girlfriend's family's multi-national when graduate. And I have no need for your 'protection'. I will not participate in your little games any more. Just stay away. I have no use for you."

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes. You'll be singing another tune soon enough, and then you'll come crawling to me. You see, people here like me. They believe me. So if I tell them that the Freak is saying this or doing that they will believe me. See how well you do when I start directing all the rugger-buggers and muscle heads to your door for every bit of gossip about their shagging habits. After all, you're well known for, what do you call your little parlour trick, deducing is it? Yes, deducing every little thing about their lives. It wouldn't take much to persuade them that every titbit of salacious gossip, every dirty joke or lewd story originated with you. After all, you're the frustrated little virgin, obsessed with other people's sex lives. Of course it'll be you. And I won't be there to protect you. How do ya feel about that Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Perfectly fine, actually. Because I happen to know a few useful facts about you." He registered the shocked expression on his tormentor's face. "Oh, I see. You didn't expect that the same technique you had me use on others would work on you as well. Allow me to demonstrate. I presume that your current paramour, the Honourable Phoenicia Dewhurst, will be somewhat miffed when she discovers that you're also currently shagging the Master's wife every Thursday night whilst the Master attends the meeting of the Fellows. I should imagine that her father, who I understand is currently sponsoring your education with a view to you joining one of his more prestigious companies, will also be somewhat irked when his bereft daughter announces the end of her hopes of an early marriage and charming children because her intended turned out to be a cheating shit. Shall I continue, Seb?"

"You … you bastard. You can't prove a thing. She won't believe you without proof."

"You have gone out of your way to demonstrate, to the entire student body, that my deductions about their extra-curricular activities are accurate. I do have proof, not that I need it. Let's just call it insurance shall we. You ensure I am left alone to continue my studies in peace, and I will leave you alone to exercise your libido wherever you may choose. You will desist from accosting me in the formal hall, or anywhere else within Cambridge. In fact you will simply leave … me … alone."

"OK Freak. If that's how you want to play it, then fine. I was trying to make your life here a little easier, maybe get the sad little virgin laid, but as you're so ungrateful I'll just leave you to stew all on your own. Go back to your lonely wanking. I'm done."

Sherlock turned back to his book as Sebastian's footsteps retreated into the distance. He took a moment to wonder whether the man really believed what he had said. Whether he was delusional enough to believe that, by drawing attention to Sherlock's skills in such a crass way, and raising his profile amongst the other students, he was somehow doing Sherlock a favour, at least in his own weird view of the world. Sherlock shrugged. Could someone who was so obsessed with his own gratification, sexual and otherwise, be so shallow to truly believe that everyone else was interested in the same things? Was that possible? A review of the evidence seemed to indicate that yes, Sebastian Wilkes was one of those entitled narcissists who believed that everyone of any consequence had the same attitude to life as himself, and anyone who didn't was only worth using then throwing away. Sherlock contemplated this for a moment before filing the information away. One day, perhaps, he would need to turn his attention to the study of psychology.

Curiously, Sebastian Wilkes now shared a shelf in his Mind Palace with the shortly to be executed Albert Hudson.

* * *

><p><strong>Una Stubbs was born in Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire. Her great grandfather Sir Ebenezer Howard, a Victorian stenographer from a relatively modest background, founded the garden city movement and personally oversaw the construction of Letchworth and Welwyn Garden City (revealed in Who Do You Think You Are?).<strong>


	5. Victor Trevor

**Set between 1997 and 1998, this covers Sherlock's introduction to Victor Trevor and cocaine. There is brief reference to events in 'Trefoil' chapter 3.**

**Thank you to Wellingtongoose for their excellent meta on Sherlock's education which I have used as my reference.**

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Again, I know nothing about cocaine use, so forgive me if I got anything wrong. I used the FRANK site as my information source.**

**_Trigger warning:_ non-consensual use of drugs**

* * *

><p>It was the summer of 1997 and the start of Sherlock's second year. He had not been able to stand the tedium of his parent's house. Mycroft was doing whatever Mycroft did behind the closed doors of Whitehall. Linley was away with a youth theatre group pretending to be a tree or whatever actor's did to be in the moment. His father pottered around the garden, weeding and pruning when the business of the boardroom did not drag him to the City. And his Mummy made jam, dried flowers and did all those other boringly domestic things so beloved of the WI and so demeaning, in Sherlock's view, for a mathematical genius.<p>

The heat and stifling dullness had become too much, so Sherlock had packed his bags and gone to visit Martha Hudson.

With the money they had salted away, Mrs Hudson had been able to purchase a mid-terrace Georgian house on Baker Street. The property was split in two. 221A was a small café, run by a charming family. It's cheerful red awning and the tables arranged on the pavement outside gave it the feel of a continental café, even if the food was the usual sandwiches and fry-ups expected by the labourers and office workers who formed the mainstay of the Speedy's clientele. Whilst they served a perfectly authentic Italian espresso, they were just as adept a producing a mug of perfect builder's tea.

Beside the windows of the café stood a black front door with brass door furniture and a half moon fanlight above. The number 221B stood boldly above a large brass door knocker. The smell of baking wafted temptingly from inside. When Mrs Hudson opened the door she was red faced, with flour clinging to the beads of sweat of her forehead where she'd obviously been brushing her fringe out of her eyes with the back of her wrist.

"Sherlock, how wonderful. You're early. I'm just finishing off a batch of scones for Carlotta next door. Apparently they go down very well with the tourists. Come in, come in. I've made your room up. It's just down there out the back. Go through while I finish this up otherwise I'll have flour everywhere."

He only spent a few days in Mrs Hudson's cramped back room. She had settled in well back in London. The rent from Speedy's covered most of her day-to-day living expenses, whilst she rented out Flat B upstairs to a professional couple. The income was more than enough to keep her comfortable and allow what remained of her capital to stay happily invested and untouched.

Happy that the dear lady was financially secure, he was glad to hear that she'd built a circle of friends for herself. As well as Carlotta and Fred from Speedy's, she was getting very chummy with Mrs Turner next door in 219 and, through her, had been introduced to a knitting group, and some avid bakers and recipe swappers. Mrs Hudson was the first to admit that the knitting circle was more about gossip than anything else. Sherlock felt a pang of sadness when he saw the look of regret on Mrs Hudson's face as she talked of the circle members sharing family photos and tales of children and grandchildren. But she soon brightened up as she spoke of the new life she was building for herself, so far from what she had known in Florida.

"… and dear Mrs Wilson upstairs asked if they could redecorate the flat, what with it being so plain. Well, of course I agreed as long as they didn't make any structural changes. Apparently they like something called retro. They've redone the kitchen. I had that nice Belling up there. Well they've put in a range cooker my Mum would have thought old fashioned. And the wallpaper. Oh you wouldn't believe Sherlock. It's all flock with each wall different. It's a real hotch-potch, although I suppose it looks nice in it's way. They've kept the fireplace and the cornices. Oh and they've built bookcases into the alcoves either side of the chimney. It's all top quality I'm sure, but it's not really to my taste. But then I don't have to live with it. I've said that I'll knock off the final month's rent if they leave everything as is when they move out. I just hope it doesn't make it difficult to rent. And the other flat on this floor, Flat C down the end of the hall, is the bane of my life. It has a terrible damp problem which we can't seem to cure. Of course it means I can't rent it out, not that I really need to. I'll probably just leave it for now. I'm sure I'll get round to it someday. And what about you Sherlock? You're at Cambridge aren't you? That must be fun. I've heard about the hi-jinks you students get up to. Have you found yourself a nice young man yet, or are you playing the field?"

Sherlock looked up, somewhat alarmed at the direction the conversation had suddenly taken. "Mrs Hudson, really. I know many students spend more time gaining trophies in sport or in bed, but I am there to study."

The older lady giggled and fluttered her hand. "Oh, don't mind me. You know I'm just a foolish old women who wants to see her favourite duckling settled."

Sherlock took a sip of tea and changed the subject. "And how are you, Mrs Hudson, in yourself? I couldn't help but notice a slight limp in your right leg."

"Oh, it's nothing dear. Just paying the price for all that shimmying I used to do. It's my hip. It only plays up when it's damp or the weather's on the turn. It's fine. Nothing to worry about."

"Well, if you're sure."

"Oh, I'm quite sure. Now, more tea or can I tempt you with a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven?"

-0-0-0-

Sherlock's return to Cambridge went largely unnoticed. Most of the students had yet to return from their summer break, and few of the throngs of tourists were interested in the 1960's architecture of Churchill when they had colleges the likes of Trinity, Corpus Christi and Kings.

He had already informed the Porter of his early return, so his room was ready for him. After unpacking his possessions, he decided to confirm his access to the air conditioned laboratories where he would no doubt spend most of his time over the coming months. He enjoyed walking into an empty lab. He could scent the lingering traces of chemicals in the air, the cleaning fluids the maintenance staff had used, the hum of the air conditioning that was almost drowned out by the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the constant drone of the various refrigerated storage units that were dotted around the walls. This was an atmosphere he had grown comfortable with. It spoke to him of safety, solitude and science. Here he was isolated from the world. He could focus, secure in the knowledge that he would rarely be disturbed, the other users of the lab quickly learning that he did not want their interference or their company. In the lab he had more control over the constant flow of data that assailed his mind. The lab was a clean environment, rarely inhabited by more than a few people all of whom were focused on their own experiments. It was the purest place he had ever been. Perhaps, in the unlikely event that there were a heaven, and in the even more unlikely event that he were to merit being there, this, for him, would be it. A quiet room of few distractions where he could control the data that constantly assailed his mind, and where he could focus his intellect without disturbance. A room of science and logic. Yes, this would be his heaven.

-0-0-0-

He'd noticed the man several times. A face that quickly became familiar in the formal hall, the library, corridors and lecture rooms. Sharp eyes that he felt upon him but which darted quickly away when he looked in their direction.

The man was a little under six feet tall, with brown eyes and walnut brown hair, worn unfashionably short. His tanned complexion spoke of years spent in the sun. His clothes spoke of family money, but a relaxed attitude. Every item of clothing was carefully tailored or bore the label of a top designer, yet it was all worn with a lazy carelessness. He was right handed and wore a heavy gold Rolex on his left wrist. That the man had only just arrived, but was the same year as Sherlock suggested that he had transferred in from another university. The overly precise English accent suggested a former colony, perhaps India. It was difficult to determine more than the basics until the man stopped hovering and actually made contact; an interaction Sherlock had no intention of initiating despite his growing frustration with the situation.

Another week passed before his shadow made his first approach.

It was a pleasant day towards the end of September. Sherlock had taken advantage of the sunlight to study sitting under a tree in a small area of grassland off of Churchill Road. Someone in one of the homes on Storey's Way kept a bee hive at the bottom of their garden. Sherlock had discovered during his first summer that the bees made their way over Churchill Way to feed on the pollen of the wild flowers and clover that flourished on this infrequently mowed patch of land. He found contentment in watching the industrious creatures meander their way over the field, pausing at each blossom to capture the few remaining morsels as the hive prepared for winter.

"Err, hello. May I join you?"

Sherlock looked up, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he glared at the owner of the shadow that now obstructed his view.

"Piss off."

"Oh, my word. You really are as rude as they say. Seb said you're an arrogant tosser. I have to say I didn't believe him. Benefit of the doubt and all that."

"You've asked Sebastian Wilkes about me?" A small nod answered his query. "Well Seb is a lying bastard. He's only interested in who he can shag and who can further his career prospects. Which are you?"

The man blushed. "Oh well, I'm sure he's very attractive, but, err, no, I'm not, err …"

"What? Not interested in darling Sebby or not interested in men?"

"Um, well, I'm definitely not interested in Seb."

"Ahhh, but you do have a passing fancy for the male form."

"Um, well, um, yes."

"Is that why you're here? Did Daddy not want you disgracing the family name in India so he sent you to the university in good old Blighty with the proudest reputation for producing queers? Cambridge, good choice."

"Err, no. I transferred from The Jawaharlal Nehru Centre for Advanced Scientific Research in Bangalore. I was supposed to come here all along, but Mama fell sick and Papa wanted me to stay nearby in case the worst happened."

"Right. And you're here now because? Ah yes, the worst happened."

"Yes. How did you know? She died in February. So, with nothing to hold me in India, here I am. Victor Trevor, by the way."

Sherlock briefly surveyed the hand stuck in his direction. Reaching up, he took it and exchanged a cursory shake. "Sherlock Holmes."

Victor seemed to take the introduction as an invitation to join Sherlock, the man dumping his bag of books and scrunching up against the trunk, nudging Sherlock's shoulder repeatedly as he made himself comfortable. He then proceeded to talk, about himself, his family, his family's chemical works in Bangalore, how he had wanted to go to the Institute of Plantation Management in Bangalore so he could take over the family tea plantation in Ooty, but Papa had insisted he take over the chemical works so he was studying chemistry. He had an older sister who had graduated from Cambridge the previous year with a Masters in Business and Management …"

The babble went on, and on, and on. Each excited fact making its way into his mind and sitting, proud and quivering in the reception hall of his Mind Palace as it awaited allocation to its appropriate room.

Sherlock stood abruptly, gathered his belongings and walked away. He neither spoke to nor looked back at the young man still sat against the tree trunk. Victor startled out of his monologue, grabbed up his own possessions, and bounded after the departing figure, bouncing around the unresponsive man like an excitable puppy trying to attract the attention of his master. His over enthusiasm caused him to catch the back of Sherlock's heel, causing the man to stumble, barking his shin on a stone step, before righting himself, growling in anger and slamming the door of the college entrance in the following man's face.

After that, Victor never left Sherlock alone. At every opportunity he bounded up, all smiles and enthusiasm. Nothing shook the man from his goal, to be-friend the glacial Sherlock Holmes. To a small degree he was successful. Sherlock became so used to the annoyance that he was able to blank out the constant stream of inane consciousness that left the man's mouth. Victor did have his uses. Whenever he was around, especially when Sherlock was immersed in his studies, Victor would place an almost constant supply of snacks and drinks within arm's reach, giving a contented sigh when he returned later to find only empty packaging and crumbs.

Of course, his new 'best friend' didn't go unnoticed by those who constantly looked for new ways to torment him.

It was Seb who 'accidentally' bumped into him in formal hall one morning during breakfast, causing him to spill orange juice on his shoes. "Oh dear. I am sorry Sherlock. How inordinately clumsy of me. And all over your shiny shoes too. Best mop that up before they get all sticky. Or perhaps you can get your little pet to do it. I'm sure he loves bending over for you. The chance to kneel at your feet will send him all of aquiver. Such a sweet little pet."

Sherlock remained stony faced, as he internally raged, but there was little he could do. To retort in any way was to give Sebastian what he wanted. He loathed the smarmy bastard in front of him with his sickening innuendos, and he despised Victor even more for putting him in the situation with his besotted attention. He hated everything about the man's ill conceived courtship, for that's what it was, but nothing he did seemed to dissuade the man from his devotion. He'd tried ignoring him, being rude to him, deducing him, avoiding him, even introducing him to other gay students in the hope of diverting his attention; everything but using physical force against him. Nothing dissuaded him from his abject devotion.

And so it continued, until Christmas.

Sherlock was under strict orders to return home. Mycroft had even contrived for a chauffeur to retrieve him (he preferred the term man-handle) from his room and drive him back to his parent's where he was greeted with enthusiastic kisses from Mummy and an uncomfortable hug from Daddy. Mycroft would not arrive until Christmas Eve and Linley was away performing pantomimes for underprivileged children with his youth theatre group.

Sherlock retreated to his bedroom where he remained, sulking, with only his laptop for company, until his parents demanded his attendance either in the kitchen or the drawing room.

Christmas was invariably hell. Mummy always cooked a huge feast for Christmas day, despite Sherlock and Mycroft barely touching their food. Mycroft, of course, adored Mummy's stollen and gorged himself on it. Sherlock, of course, mocked him mercilessly.

Sherlock, as always, refused to by Christmas presents, except for a box of Charbonnel et Walker champagne truffles which he always hid for Mummy under the tree, unsigned, of course. It was a little subterfuge between them. She would exclaim and deny all knowledge of her secret admirer, he would sit in the corner, his face buried in a book to hide the happy twitch at the corner of his mouth and the shine in his eyes at her delighted flutterings.

By Boxing Day, he was exhausted. What little goodwill existed between himself and his older brother evaporated as quickly as the brandy on the Christmas pudding. The house was once again filling with tension. Sherlock decided he'd fulfilled his obligation, packed his bags and called a cab to the station. The journey back to Cambridge took forever. As usual, the trains were all on a highly curtailed Sunday service. There were few buses and even fewer cabs available. Travel was a nightmare, not helped by freezing fog.

He collapsed on his bed a little after eight that night. He ran himself a bath, simply to defrost, before pulling on his pyjamas and retiring to the warmth of his bed to read.

Two days back and Sherlock was bored. He needed to get out and do something, anything, to stave off his darkening thoughts and give his mind new stimuli to work on before it tore itself apart. That was his problem. His mind absorbed everything that happened around him, pulling in scents, sounds, everything, like a well-oiled machine, flying at full tilt all the time, processing information into patterns, tying it to previously accumulated data, and then bringing its conclusions to the forefront of Sherlock's conscious mind like a precocious child to an adoring parent. The problem with any well-oiled machine was that, when it had insufficient inputs, it began to tear itself apart.

Sherlock needed to get out of his room and find something to keep his mind entertained.

He ventured into the centre of Cambridge and its post-Christmas shoppers, deducing the mass of humanity; parents desperate after the usual round of family angst, but determined to appear full of a Christmas spirit that almost none of them felt, whilst children dashed to and fro, still buzzing from Santa, and sugar, and gifts. When the seething throng became too much, he strolled along the Cam until his hands and feet were frozen. He found a riverside pub that served food and a disgusting sludge it called coffee. Still, it was warm and allowed him the time for his toes to defrost before he continued on, back to his room.

Again he ran a bath, the cold having seemed to permeate every bone in his body. For once, he took the time to lay back and luxuriate in the warmth as he allowed his mind to process the new information he had gathered. Most of it would be earmarked for deletion, as all irrelevant data was. He had no room in his mind for other people's mundane clutter.

As the water began to cool, he opened his eyes, gazing blankly at the bathroom ceiling. Slowly, like a gentle prod, he began to become focused. Something was important. Something he had not noticed before. Looking more closely at the ceiling he began to analyse what he was seeing.

The bathroom ceiling was white artex – that horrible spikey coating that builders insisted on smearing over British ceilings. It was as hard as rock and its textured surface offered an attractive home to mold, especially in the steamy atmosphere of a bathroom. This particular ceiling had obviously escaped the attentions of the College cleaning staff for a while, as it was fairly evenly speckled with the black dots of mold colonies.

Except near the corner it wasn't. What had caught Sherlock's eye was a circle of pristine white artex. About a centimetre in diameter, it was encircled by black, but remained inviolate.

Sherlock's mind latched on to this speck of purity and danced a little jig. Here was an anomaly worth investigating. Sherlock leapt from the bath, remembering to drain the water, dried himself rapidly, pulled on underwear, jeans and a jumper as the cold of his room caused him to shiver, then grabbed his kit.

He spent the next two hours carefully documenting, swabbing and even photographing the small patch of ceiling. Satisfied that all possible data had been gathered, Sherlock pulled on socks, shoes and coat, and took his notes and samples down to his favourite lab where he could begin analysis.

For the next four days he was absorbed. He barely left the lab, rarely drank and hardly ate. Only whilst running an analysis or growing further cultures would Sherlock take the time to stagger back to his room, grabbing refreshments and a few hours of sleep before returning to continue his work. By the end of the fourth day he was exhausted, smelly and dehydrated. His brain was so over-stimulated that he was barely coherent.

Victor found him in the lab and, with little difficulty given his weakened state, dragged the man back to his room. He ordered Sherlock to strip, shave and shower whilst Victor went back to his own room to change. When Sherlock re-entered his room from the shower, he found underwear, trousers and one of his aubergine shirts laid out on his bed. Without thinking he pulled on the clothing, then collapsed into his chair. A scant fifteen minutes later Victor re-appeared, shaking Sherlock awake and demanding that he accompany him to a New Year's Eve party in one of the student lodging houses. Sherlock, whilst well known for hating social gatherings, was in no fit state to refuse, being dragged along by the other man who burbled happily about the people who would be there.

It was a huge mistake. Sherlock's mind was already over-sensitized by four days of hard work, little rest and no chance to deal with the data that now filled his Mind Palace awaiting processing. As soon as he walked into the crowded student boarding house he was overwhelmed. The music throbbed, the heat of tightly pressed bodies was stifling, and the combined scents of perfumes, deodorants, sweat, food and alcohol made his stomach roil. Someone shoved a can of something cold into his hand. He instinctively drank it down, his body crying out for liquid after four days of deprivation. The alcohol hit his brain hard. Victor felt his companion stagger, so guided him to a back room, where he was eased to the floor. This room was quieter, the occupants seeming more sedate than those dancing and undulating to a incredibly loud base beat coming from somewhere else in the house.

Sherlock felt hot. He hadn't even taken off his jacket. Somehow he communicated this to Victor who removed the garment, folding it behind Sherlock's head to form a cushion against the wall. Next Victor began to unbutton and roll up Sherlock's sleeves. The cool air was a relief. Sherlock's brain was pounding as his mind spun, identifying brands of scent and pulsating with the music still audible from outside. He had already been almost insensate when Victor had dragged him from his room, now with the combination of so much stimuli and the alcohol, his mind was throbbing.

He barely felt the tightening of something around his left bicep. He winced at the sting in the crook of his elbow. He sighed in relief when opalescent walls sprung up around his Mind Palace. They were beautiful; keeping everything out. There was no more noise, no more smells, no external stimuli at all. There was merely Sherlock within his Mind Palace. The lack of extraneous stimuli was marvellous. His mind whooped with joy as it began to process everything it had accumulated over the past few days. With no distractions the focus was total, and the speed, oh the processing speed was incredible. Never before had he been able to see so much so clearly. The rubbish was identified and deleted, the data was neatly filed away in the appropriate room, then each delicate jewel was brought forth for closer examination, other data points pushing forward vying for attention to see if they were part of the bigger picture.

It was glorious.

It was Christmas.

Too soon the feeling of a hand on his arms and a voice saying it was time to go caused the opalescent walls to fall away, allowing the noise of the outside world to encroach once again.

It was 12:37pm on New Year's day when Sherlock finally surfaced. Victor was sat next to him on the bed, his back against the headboard and his body pressed hard against Sherlock's side. Sherlock startled, instinctively shoving the unwanted body off the bed onto the floor.

"Oi! What did you do that for? You could at least be grateful. I made sure you had a good time last night and I got you home OK. There's no need to get violent."

Sherlock thought about what had happened.

"Victor, what exactly did you do?"

"I dragged you out of that lab, got you dressed up and took you to a New Year's party."

Sherlock rubbed the crook of his elbow. He looked down at the red puncture mark surrounded by bruising.

"Victor. Tell me precisely. What the fuck did you do to me?"

Victor looked at where Sherlock rubbed his arm, his face breaking into a grin of realisation. "Oh that. Don't worry, it was a clean needle. I took it especially for you from the pharmacology lab. Only the best for my Sherlock. And you needed something after what you'd put yourself through, glued to that microscope for days. I thought you'd appreciate a little escape, a bit of a high. I mixed it specially. Call it my Christmas present to you. I've tucked some vials into the back of your sock drawer for later. Just a five percent solution. Nothing too strong."

Sherlock gritted his teeth to hold onto his temper.

"Victor, a five percent solution of what, precisely?"

"Cocaine. I made sure it was the good stuff. Tested it myself. No impurities. You can thank me later."

"Thank you? Why the fucking hell would I thank you? You deliberately and with pre-meditation created and then injected me with a Class A drug without my knowledge or consent while I was in a highly compromised state. And you want me to thank you? What kind of a moron are you? I've had to put up with your frankly disgusting attention for months, and now you think you have the right to shoot me full of cocaine and share my bed. I don't think so. If I so much as see you again I will have you sent down for drug possession and distribution. And if you so much as whisper that you injected me with cocaine I will have your body buried so deep no-one will ever find it. And believe me I can do it too. One call to my brother and you're gone. I will not have an imbecile like you ruin my education because of your pathetic infatuation. What did you think? That I'd get hooked and rely on you as my dealer? Or did you think that I'd fall into your arms and declare my undying love. My god, you did didn't you? Just, get out of my sight. Go, get out of my room and stay out of my life. I will not hesitate to destroy you if you come anywhere near me again."

Later that day, Sherlock sent an email to Mycroft informing him that a fellow student had offered to procure cocaine for him. By the end of the week, Victor Trevor was on a flight back to Bangalore, and a place at the Institute of Plantation Management.

-0-0-0-

After showering, he went to his sock drawer. Victor had made a mess of his sock index in his amateurish attempt to hide the stash. It only took a moment to find the four vials of solution. Sherlock made to throw them away, but something stayed his hand. A memory of opalescent walls and his mind free of distraction. Taking a strip of sticky tape, he carefully taped the vials to the underside of his bed frame. Later he would find a more secure hiding place away from prying eyes. And, very much later, an experiment was called for.

* * *

><p><strong>This work is part of a series, set in a canon divergent universe where series 3 didn't happen and Mary Morstan is a totally different person (because my story, 'Watersheds', around which these stories are based, was written before series 3 aired). In this universe, our three main characters, Sherlock, John and Mary, identify, in their own ways, as asexual.<strong>

**The stories so far in the Trefoil series are as follows:**

**_Birth_ - Why Sherlock and not William? William Sherlock Scott Holmes has issues. He has already lost his beloved big brother Mycroft to boarding school and his new best friend, an odious creep called Charles. Then he lost his Mummy and Daddy to his new, as yet un-named baby brother. (s/10486100/1/Birth)**

**_Watersheds_ - John Watson had encountered many watersheds in his life, not all of them good, not all of them of his choosing. Each time he had to re-invent his life, sometimes on his own, and sometimes with the help of unexpected allies. (s/9616904/1/Watersheds)**

**_Trefoil_ - To his surprise he found himself loved. Not just by one, but by two of the most amazing people he had ever known. With cases to work on, criminals to chase and a new DI to break in, Sherlock found himself to be ... content. (s/10194990/1/Trefoil)**

**_Becoming_ - Missing chapters from the developing asexual relationship between Sherlock, John and Mary. (s/10926138/1/Becoming)**

**_Ensemble_ - Background stories, in no particular chronological order, of the wider Holmes-Watson family. (s/10944616/1/Ensemble)**


	6. Mycroft decides Sherlock's future

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Trigger warning: use of drugs, homelessness, mention of child death, forced restraint**

* * *

><p>Sherlock completed his time at Cambridge, graduating with a First in Chemistry. Mummy wanted him to stay on for Postgraduate Research. Sherlock couldn't even contemplate another three years of tedium just to gain an entirely pointless qualification. Mycroft, as always, had other plans for his younger brother's future. He knew that Sherlock had neither the temperament nor the desire to carve a career for himself in either Whitehall or Vauxhall Cross. Therefore, he decided that his brother needed to focus his talent for science into research. Porton Down would be too restrictive, so Mycroft had decided that Baskerville was the best fit for his willful sibling; isolated, and with a reputation for it's more cutting edge and esoteric research, it was an environment that could be closely monitored, but offered an illusion of freedom.<p>

Sherlock hadn't decided what he wanted to do. He hadn't found that niche that made his blood sing, but he knew it was out there. Even if he had to invent something himself, he would find his vocation.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had experimented with cocaine during his remaining years at Cambridge. He wasn't addicted, only using it when he needed the isolation and focus that only the drug could provide. Still, his arm bore the scars of his infrequent companion.

After graduation he briefly stayed with Mrs Hudson, enjoying the buzz of London. Finally, he bit the bullet and returned to his parent's home, returning to his childhood room and feeling that, despite the years that had passed, nothing had changed since he was eighteen. He was twenty-three and had no clear idea of what he wanted to do with his life. Mummy was obviously disappointed that he had not chosen to earn a Ph.D, and Mycroft tried, via barbed words, cryptic texts, and in one case, kidnapping, to persuade him his future was on Dartmoor. Sherlock might have considered the option if anyone but Mycroft had approached him.

Mycroft's association with Sir Peregrine had changed him. To everyone else he appeared charming and erudite, but to Sherlock, who had always known him best, Mycroft was merely smarmy, domineering, and manipulative, Sir Peregrine's guidance exacerbating Mycroft's already overbearing need to control.

Sherlock lay in the garden listening to the buzz of insects as he blew lazy smoke rings from his cigarette towards the cloud dappled blue of the summer sky. Perhaps he should travel. Take some time and explore the world. Let his mind absorb all its strange wonders, before he had to make a choice about what he could do.

He closed his eyes, letting himself wander through his Mind Palace, throwing wide doors rarely opened and rummaging through long ignored shelves and cupboards. It was in the dark corner of his play room that he found a magnifying glass, large and round with a brass handle and rim. Curious, he picked it up and was instantly assailed by the memories attached to the object. The pool near the Barbican. The inter-school swimming competition he and his classmates had been forced to attend. Sitting in the stifling humidity in his thick school uniform with his schoolmates amongst the scruffy urchins of central London. The 100m butterfly and one boy flailing then sinking in the middle of the pool. Teachers working frantically to breathe life back into the limp body on the poolside as other teachers herded the spectators away to the cafeteria. The distinct impression of wrongness. Sneaking into the locker room and finding the kit bag labelled 'Carl Powers' kicked under a bench in front of an open locker. The clothes, screwed up and thrown in, all neatly labelled 'C. Powers' by a loving hand. The missing shoes. Telling his teacher that his shoes were gone, that something was wrong, but being dismissed and, finally, when persistence did not pay off, being shouted at and dragged away. Writing five hundred times 'I will not be insolent to my teachers'. Reading in the paper and hearing in the gossip that buzzed down his school's corridors that the 'oik had a fit'. Knowing that that was not the correct answer, but having no means to discover the truth. Finally tucking the memories away in a dusty corner so the lack of an answer no longer haunted his dreams.

Fascinated, Sherlock returned to his room, withdrawing the carved ebony box from its hiding place amongst his other accumulated clutter. Always the best way to hide anything from Mycroft's nosey prying; keep it in plain sight.

Sherlock locked his bedroom door, filled his syringe, and waited for the opalescent calm to free his mind.

He awoke some time later to a feeling of uncomfortable constriction. All the information about Carl Power's death was clear in his mind. The boy had been murdered, by whom and for what reason remained unclear due to insufficient data, but that his shoes were taken as some kind of memento mori, or more likely a trophy, was indisputable. He became aware of a feeling of movement. A vehicle of some sort. He was lying down. He tried to move but his arms were bound around his waist. He struggled to sit up, but a strong hand on his chest and even stronger straps held him secured to a stretcher. He was confined in straightjacket, being taken to who knew where by a thug in a white uniform.

Mycroft!

Sherlock knew without doubt that this was Mycroft's doing. A further way to control his brother's 'errant' behaviour and coerce him into falling in line with his grand plan for his brother's future. Well Mycroft would be disappointed.

Sherlock was registered at a private rehabilitation facility. He started off in sterile white isolation. After an initial medical where his health was deemed to be satisfactory, and a self-satisfied nurse (thirty-five, single, three cats, dyed red hair, naturally a nondescript mid brown, passion for Oreos, Tetley tea, gossip magazines, and the large man who had brought him in) tutted patronisingly over the scarring in the crook of his elbow, he was re-secured in the straightjacket and dumped in an ancient wheelchair before being locked in a white padded cell.

For a long time he sat, stony faced, back against the padding. Mycroft knew what this kind of sensory deprivation did to Sherlock. It appeared his older brother was not above torture to get his way. Sir Peregrine had taught him well. Sherlock refused to give the bastard the satisfaction.

The room was not as efficient as cocaine, but the sterility and sound-proofing reduced extraneous stimuli to a minimum, so Sherlock again entered his Mind Palace to continue his explorations. The continuous prodding of a full bladder finally roused him from his reverie. Using the wall as support, he gained his feet. He walked to the door and shouted out his need to urinate. Unclear how long he had been incarcerated, he knew that it had been at least twenty four hours since he last ate or drank, his last meal being half a cheese sandwich at lunch the previous day. His bladder now becoming painfully urgent he shouted again. No-one came.

One final time he yelled out. "LET ME OUT OF THIS ROOM SO I CAN TAKE A PISS. IF YOU DON'T I'LL JUST DO IT HERE." When there was still no answer he did as he'd threatened, uncomfortable at soiling himself, but determined not to give in to a situation over which he had little other control.

An angry man and a pinch faced women, both dressed as medical staff, entered the room shortly after. The porter grabbed Sherlock from behind, yanking aside the neck of his restraints exposing his neck. An injection administered, none too gently, by the nurse quickly rendered Sherlock unconscious. When he awoke he was in a bed. He wore a hospital gown, with an IV inserted into his hand and an uncomfortable catheter to drain away his urine. They were taking no chances of a repeat performance. The straightjacket was gone, but his wrists were bound by leather straps to the sides of the bed.

A nurse entered the room to check that status of his IV.

"Can you tell me why I'm restrained? I've not been violent towards myself or anyone else. If you are unable to give me an answer I would like to speak to someone who can."

With barely an acknowledgement of his request the nurse left the room.

Some while later a doctor appeared, a nurse standing at her back. The woman had not long graduated medical school, her white lab coat still almost pristine, her mind stuffed with all the answers and latest research, much of it flawed, but giving her a confidence that she knew best. Sherlock observed both women, dismissing everything about them as irrelevant. He repeated his question in as uncondescending a tone as possible.

"You have been committed by a Mr Holmes. You were found in your bedroom by your Mother having injected yourself with a solution of cocaine. Apparently she became quite hysterical. Mr Holmes requested that you be restrained as you have a tendency to violent outbursts and unpredictable behaviour. He has asked that you remain in the secure unit until the completion of your rehabilitation."

"Fucking pompous git. And how long will my rehabilitation take?"

"Two months. You will receive a schedule of your group and one-to-one counselling sessions. There is also a full programme of recreational activities including painting, bingo and supervised walks around the garden when the weather permits."

"Oh excellent." Sherlock's voice dripped sarcasm. "And may I ask when I will be allowed to eat or drink as I have had nothing since Tuesday lunchtime."

"Oh really? I wasn't aware."

"I find that surprising given the rather startling concentration of the piss I left in your padded cage."

"Normally we would limit food intake during the first few days as addicts often start to suffer withdrawal symptoms causing nausea, however you do not seem to be exhibiting any of the usual indicators."

"That is because I am not an addict. I use a seven percent solution of cocaine injected intravenously when I have need to focus my mind. I do not seek nor crave a high. My mind is quite enough to keep me entertained without entering the realms of a drug induced la-la land. I deal in facts, not hallucinations."

"Really. So the scarring indicating a fairly regular drug habit is just for show?"

"I have been using intermittently for the past two and a half years. I am here solely because my brother wishes to control my life, and I will not give him the satisfaction. Having me locked away in here, restrained and regimented at every turn is his way of punishing me for my insubordination."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind."

"I will tell you now, I do not play well with others. I tend to make weaker minded individuals unaccountably angry when I tell them the truth, and I always tell the truth in all its lurid detail. So, if you wish to keep any semblance of control over your inmates I suggest you find solitary pursuits to keep me entertained. I enjoy reading, if your library carries more than tawdry paperbacks. The BMJ will do at a pinch. I am familiar with computers, assuming you have an internet connection of course. I like to keep up with the latest news and, of course, scientific advances. I also play the violin. I find it soothing. Tell my disgusting brother that, if he wants to do something useful, he will send me my violin, assuming you have no objection of course."

"No, no objection. However you will not be permitted any contact with the outside world while you're here except for scheduled visitors, so no internet I'm afraid. You will be allowed to wear your own clothing, pyjamas and leisure clothes mostly, t-shirts, tracksuits, that kind of thing. I understand your brother is arranging for your possessions to be brought in tomorrow. I see no objection to the violin, so I will let him know. This does all assume complete co-operation on your part. You're obviously an intelligent man. I would hate to have to treat you like a naughty child and slap you back in irons."

"How ironic. I always wanted to be a pirate."

Dr McTavish struggled to hide her involuntary smirk as the nurse behind her grew even more pinch faced.

"Nurse O'Mara, please see that Mr Holmes receives food and drink within the next thirty minutes. We do not starve our patients. And ensure that his schedule keeps communal activities to a minimum, including all non-essential group sessions. Good day Mr Holmes. I will see you at breakfast in the dining room tomorrow."

"I assume that means I will be freed from this instrument of torture?" He nodded his head in the direction of his crotch.

"Nurse O'Mara will remove the catheter when she brings your food. If you behave you will also remain free of the restraints. The IV will be removed, by the nurse, once you have finished your meal. Any other questions?"

"No Doctor. You have answered all my immediate questions. Until breakfast then."

-0-0-0-

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, it was to find a large holdall loosely packed with clothing deposited outside his door. There was also a cheap violin case leant against the wall. Inside the holdall were t-shirts, sweat pants, hoodies, and jumpers along with cheap cotton underwear from a high-street retailer. He found sleepwear, a ghastly towelling bath robe, a pair of slippers and a couple of pairs of trainers. A wash bag contained the essentials for personal grooming.

Sherlock turned his attention to the violin case. Unsurprisingly, it was not his violin. Mycroft had ensured that nothing that came in for his brother's use was actually his. It was all bought from high street chains and of the cheapest quality. Mycroft did love his unsubtle message. Submit or go without. Similarly the violin, whilst passable, was nothing special. It was little more than a proficient child would play.

Entering the breakfast hall, Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement to Dr McTavish who was drinking coffee with colleagues at a table with views across the room. The only table set with crockery and cutlery. The inmates made do with fragile plastic cutlery as they ate bland slop from flimsy plastic trays.

Over the next week Sherlock surveyed the layout of the facility. He had no doubt that, if he could get outside undetected, he would have little difficulty leaving the grounds. The main problem was finding a way out of the secure unit with its doors deactivated by card readers and pass codes.

Discovering the passcode proved remarkably simple, calling for fortuitous positioning and sharp eyes when one of the other inmates decided to freak out. It was a fair assumption that the code was the same throughout most of the general staff access doors in the facility, given the lack of intelligence of most of the staff.

He chose his time well, selecting an evening when Nurse O'Mara was on night shift. His nimble fingers removed her security card as she ushered into his room for the night. Since she was not supposed to leave the inmates alone, it was doubtful she would notice its loss until morning. Packing his meagre possessions into the holdall, including a blanket from the bed, and grabbing his violin case, Sherlock picked the lock on his room with ease. He had little difficulty exiting the facility, only having to duck into a side room once when one of the orderlies swept past with a cleaning trolley. Within ten minutes Sherlock was outside, and half an hour later he was off the grounds entirely. Making his way to a main road, he hitched a lift with a lorry driver heading for London who was grateful for the company to ease the tedium of his journey.

Once in central London, Sherlock simply disappeared. He stayed away from Baker Street, unwilling to drag the lady into is battle with his domineering brother. He joined the crowds of homeless who remained largely invisible in the throng of England's capital. He became familiar with every street, alley and bolt-hole. He quickly learned to identify and avoid Mycroft's spying CCTV cameras, using routes over rooftops and through tunnels and underpasses when remaining at ground level was impossible. He was quickly accepted into the homeless community where he began to build a network of useful contacts. He would not call them friends. He did not have friends, still clinging to Mycroft's mantra "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." It was a while before he realised that he no longer repeated the words in Mycroft's conspiratorial tone, as though he were passing on a great secret. He now heard the words in his own voice. He had taken ownership.

He made his living playing his violin and, when the weather grew bitter, by vetting the clientele of a local drug den. He generally stayed away from drugs throughout his time on the street, having no use for it, better uses for his money, and needing to remain aware of his surroundings at all times. However, he could not avail himself of the normal shelters when the weather grew deadly cold. The drug den was warm, with food, and a degree of comfort. His job was to keep an eye on the door 'reading' each new client to ensure they had money, were not from the police or, worse, a rival dealer. In exchange he was allowed room and board. Very occasionally he received payment in kind. There were only so many times he could decline the offer without becoming the object of suspicion, so a couple of times each winter he would find himself back in his Mind Palace, isolated from the world by his drug of choice.

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><p><strong>If you wish to review, I would love to hear from you. Constructive criticism, corrections and compliments are always appreciated.<strong>


	7. Mummy makes her feelings known

**Enora and Seger are angered by Mycroft's machinations. Detective Inspector Lestrade makes a new acquaintance.**

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**As you will see, I have made Sherlock less acerbic than normal in this chapter. Unsurprising as he has had to survive, alone, on the streets. Normal service will be resumed later.**

**_Trigger warning_: homelessness, crime scene**

* * *

><p>Mycroft had felt a certain satisfaction when Mummy's call for help had drawn him to Sherlock's unconscious body, syringe and empty vial on the bed beside him. His foolish brother had played into his hands. He had finally left himself open to being persuaded to take Mycroft's offer of a research position at Baskerville.<p>

Having confirmed his brother was in no immediate danger, Mycroft ushered Mummy downstairs whilst he "dealt" with the situation. He kept his parents distracted whilst Sherlock was carried, secured in a straightjacket and bound to a stretcher, to the waiting ambulance. He had told his parents Sherlock was being taken to hospital for treatment for his drug addiction, not to the private secure unit that Mycroft had arranged. Sherlock would either submit to Mycroft's wishes or find himself treated as a dangerously unstable patient. He would learn that Mycroft would not be denied.

The phone call nine days later informing him that Sherlock had absconded caused nothing but a momentary disquiet. He was confident that his brother would be picked up within the week, probably high on cocaine. He called his contact in the Metropolitan Police to have Sherlock's description discreetly circulated. The cover story was that he was an informant that the Intelligence Services needed to talk to; a valuable asset that needed to be collected from the streets in pristine condition. The last thing he wanted was his brother roughed up by an overzealous plod.

Mummy had been calling, wanting to know which hospital Sherlock was in so she could visit her wayward son. She needed to give him a sound telling off for frightening her like that and bringing that muck into her house. Mycroft had put her off for the first week saying it was part of the rehabilitation treatment protocol. After Sherlock ran, Mycroft spent the next fortnight using every trick he could think off to dissuade his parents. Unfortunately Mummy was indomitable. Once she set her mind to a course of action there was no stopping her. When it came to the protection of her children she was merciless.

Finally, Mycroft could procrastinate no longer. Daddy turned his back on his oldest son with a look of angry disappointment, leaving the room for a walk around the garden until his temper was under control. Mummy's eyes flashed angrily as she stormed across the drawing room. The slap across Mycroft's left cheek sounded like a gun shot, snapping his head to the right and causing him to bite his cheek.

"How dare you Mycroft. He is not your plaything. He is a grown man who is capable of making his own decisions, no matter how idiotic they may seem. This is your mess to undo. Find him. Now. You are not welcome in this house until you do." She turned, leaving the room, head held high, to seek comfort in the kitchen.

Mycroft had little doubt that, by this evening, his parent's pantry and freezer would be full of pies and pastries, baking being Mummy's relaxation in times of upset. Unusually Mycroft knew too well that none of them would be for him. He sat, rigid and stony faced as his driver negotiated the evening traffic back to London.

The journey gave him ample opportunity to explore his guilt. He had miscalculated. He had treated his younger brother as he would one of the operatives that he currently supervised. Ever since Sherlock's world had fallen apart when he was fifteen, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to mould the young man. Sherlock had, of course, fought Mycroft at every step, but Mycroft felt he was best placed to guide his wayward brother. They were similar after all. Linley was sociable and outgoing, but Sherlock had become even more surly and withdrawn. Mycroft passed on the relevant teachings from Sir Peregrine in the hope of making life easier for his brother to understand and control. Mycroft was a pragmatist, Sherlock was a scientist. The position at Baskerville seemed a natural fit and would place his brother in an environment that Mycroft could supervise. Mycroft was well aware of his own predisposition for OCD. He felt an overwhelming need to control any aspects of his life that did not conform to predictable behaviours. Despite both brothers having an almost pathalogical need to be in possession of all the facts, Sherlock hated to conform. He loathed regimentation and balked at authority. He was by nature an experimenter, fascinated by strange combinations and interactions, repeating and documenting until he understood in its entirety. Many saw the older Holmes boys as of similar temperament when, in fact, they were almost polar opposites in their outlooks. It resulted in a relationship between the siblings that was tempestuous at best. Both men were also highly motivated to win. Neither would back down. Throughout their lives, the one-up-man-ship had escalated many of their conflicts to explosive levels.

Mycroft's enquiries remained unsuccessful. By the second Christmas after Sherlock's disappearance, Mummy had relented.

"I have already lost one son. I will not lose another. Come to Christmas dinner Mycroft. Linley will be there. I want what remains of my family together for at least one meal this year."

-0-0-0-

Seger had not forgiven his eldest son.

Despite his usual easy going nature, he found Mycroft's behaviour and failure to return Sherlock to his family were actions not easily forgiven. Sherlock had always had a certain fragility about him. He lacked Mycroft's ability to charm and Linley's gift to be everyone's friend. Sherlock craved companionship, but his intelligence, lack of social skills and forthright nature made it almost impossible for him to mix with the local children. In some ways, Sherlock's enforced isolation from other children was a blessing. He had always struggled with overstimulation. They'd quickly found that exposing him to large crowds or excessive noise caused the boy to throw what they thought were temper tantrums. Tucking him into bed with the curtains drawn and leaving him in silence for several hours seemed the only cure. When he went to school, his inability to tolerate idiocy caused friction with both his classmates and teachers. His teachers often sent reports of Sherlock missing lessons and being found either hiding in the silence of the library or carrying out strange experiments in an abandoned grounds-keeper's shed. His exemplary test results were the only reason he wasn't expelled.

Sherlock's only close companions growing up were his brother Linley, and red setter, Redbeard. His parents tried, but they struggled to understand their middle son. They encouraged Mycroft to assist, hoping he could provide insight to his younger sibling's mind. When Sherlock started talking excitedly about managing data and entering his mind palace they hoped that, finally, the tantrums would stop and Sherlock would find some peace. Unfortunately, the double tragedy of Grand-mère Véronique's death from a stroke, and Redbeard having to be put down after he limped into the garden, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his flank, had hit Sherlock hard. The incompetent psychologist they had hired, at the recommendation of their GP, to help their son through his grief only exacerbated an already desperate situation. Sherlock announced that the man was incompetent. He refused to be treated by someone who abused his own sons. The disgraced doctor retorted by labelling Sherlock a sociopath as he was escorted from their home and told never to return. The diagnosis was false. Anyone who knew the boy knew his problem was that he felt everything, including emotions, too keenly. However, Sherlock took the diagnosis to heart, brandishing it like a sword at anyone who tried to get close. He seemed to enjoy the look of fear his proclamation of 'high-functioning sociopath' caused. When he went to America in his eighteenth year, his parents were naturally concerned. It was with some trepidation that they received the large package that arrived with explicit instructions that it be placed, untouched, in his bedroom. The man that returned to them in place of the boy who had left seemed fundamentally changed. Sherlock had let his hair grow into dark curls, he naturally pale skin was tanned, and he carried himself with a wiry strength. It was as if he had found himself. They hoped that he had become more socially competent. His years at Cambridge, whilst academically successful, revealed that it was unlikely Sherlock would ever be anything but alone.

Enora tried to convince Sherlock to return to Cambridge to carry out post-graduate research. Seger was happy to allow his son some space to decide how he wanted to proceed, however he became aware that Mycroft had concocted some plan for his brother's future. It was obvious that he was trying to manipulate his brother into agreeing. Seger wished now that he had stepped in to persuade Mycroft to back off. When Enora found Sherlock insensate on his bed, an empty vial and syringe discarded beside him, she was flushed with anger and then despair. Seger was in a meeting in London, but Mycroft had arrived a few hours before, planning to spend a long weekend with his parents after a hectic six months with barely a rest. She called for Mycroft to help with his incapacitated brother. Once Mycroft confessed that Sherlock had disappeared, Enora looked back on that Wednesday afternoon realising that her eldest had seemed unaccountably pleased at the situation.

Three weeks later Mycroft confessed all to his disbelieving parents. He had ordered Sherlock removed to a secure rehabilitation centre strapped into a straightjacket and treated as a violent patient. Their son had spent time in a padded cell and then strapped to a bed in restraints. Mycroft apologised for having tried to coerce his brother into agreeing to a position in a Government laboratory. He had misled the staff at the clinic as to Sherlock's true disposition. He had assumed that Sherlock was an addict and he would have time to finalise how to proceed while Sherlock detoxed. A report from the clinic had indicated that Sherlock claimed not to be addicted, apparently confirmed by his lack of withdrawal symptoms. A few days later Sherlock breached the facility's security and disappeared into the night.

Enora reacted in a way she would always regret. That one of her sons had bullied, and, yes she would say it, tortured his younger brother so that Mycroft could get his way was unacceptable. That a son of her's could behave in such a way to his sibling shamed and disgusted her. She could feel Seger's anger and was not surprised when he left the room rather than lash out at his son. She felt no such restraint, slapping him sharply round the face and banishing him from his family home.

The second Christmas after Sherlock's disappearance she relented, inviting Mycroft back into his home and family. Her eldest admitted having no success in tracking Sherlock down. There was a possibility that he was forever lost to his family. It was unthinkable, but becoming a real possibility. Her heart broke a little more each day. Her troubled son lost in the world. How could he survive? There were many nights when Enora lay in Seger's arms as they cried over the fate of their missing son.

-0-0-0-

Sherlock had been technically homeless for over four years. In that time he'd become notorious amongst the homeless community, building a network of contacts and informants. None of them were friends, but many of them were trustworthy enough to watch his back or his belongings. He still found adults difficult, but his very specialised skill set helped a lot of people; shop-keepers, restauranteurs and street vendors. He solved problems and got them out of troublesome situations in exchange for food, services and the occasional warm place to sleep.

The street children were a different matter. There was something about the way children thought that appealed to Sherlock. They had endless inquisitiveness, and thought in such strangely obscure ways, their minds not discounting anything as impossible.

When the weather was inclement, Sherlock would give impromptu lessons to whichever children and teens were around. Raiding charity shops with his small amounts of spare change, Sherlock created a hidden library in the tunnels of reading and learning materials. One young lad called Billy was illiterate when Sherlock first ran into him not long after he'd decided to rebuild his life. Now Billy was hooked on mathematics and chemistry. Sherlock had found a couple of reasonable study guides in a charity shop, covered in the scribblings and annotations of the previous owner. Having deleted or corrected any notations that were incorrect, Sherlock handed the books to a beaming Billy who immediately disappeared into his nest of cardboard and blankets, unable to wait to dive into his latest prize.

-0-0-0-

Recently promoted DI Gregory Lestrade had transferred in to the Murder Investigation Team eighteen months ago. He'd been in the Metropolitan Police Specialist Crime and Operations Section for the past decade as a DS first joining the Project Team investigating organised crime, then joining the Flying Squad investigating robberies, with a particular focus on armed robberies. When the chance to head his own Murder Investigation Team was mooted he jumped at the chance. He'd had to change Units and spend a further eighteen months as a DS under the supervision of DI Crawford, an old hand at investigating murder who brought him up to speed on the inner workings of MIT. Lestrade had a nose for crime. Crawford was impressed with how quickly the DS picked up on working practices and the nuances of a murder scene. He had no qualms about recommending the promotion to DI.

Now DI Lestrade stood, hands shoved in his trousers pockets, in a side road linking two busy streets in Hoxton. This not one of his preferred ways to spend a Saturday morning. His wife had been seriously annoyed that he'd been called in first thing in the morning on his supposed day off. Lestrade just figured it was a way to prove himself to his superiors, and if she had a problem with it, she could think about the fancy holidays and smarter clothes that his increased salary now paid for.

It was 10:15 in the morning and he was gasping for a coffee, but the crime scene needed him. The street itself was narrow despite being just wide enough for two way traffic. Either side were the sheer brick walls of the shops that lined the two main streets. The back alleys that ran off of this side street, giving access to the rear of the parades of shops, were both blocked by security gates. Shop owners couldn't be too careful, and the gates topped with barbed wire would deter all but the most determined thieves. Not that the shops were the type to attract armed robbers. Lestrade knew from long experience that takeaways, nail bars and the cheap domestic ephemera shops that served this community were of no interest to the class of criminal that he was used to. Only the gates, with their security lights, broke the monotony of brick. The road itself was not long, no more than fifty yards. It was painted with double yellow lines to deter parking, although that hadn't stopped someone from depositing a skip next to one of the gates. Apparently a shop was being refurbished, judging by the ancient shop fittings and detritus half filling the red metal obstruction. It was useful though, making an anchor for the crime scene tape that stretched across the road, creating an isolation zone around the body of a young woman lying on her back in the gutter.

"What's the story Anderson?"

"Female, early twenties. Her uniform is from the kebab shop round the corner." The Forensic Services tech nodded his head behind him towards the street the other side of the skip. "There's little blood despite severe blunt force to the back of her head. Her handbag is still on her shoulder, purse and phone are still inside and she's seems to be wearing her watch and jewellery."

"So not a mugging gone wrong."

"No Sir. No obvious signs of sexual assault either. I'd say she was murdered elsewhere and dumped here. Probably by someone taller than her, over six foot, judging by the angle of the head wound."

Lestrade turned sharply when a man's voice said "Idiot!" just behind his left shoulder. He'd been so fixated on the crime scene he hadn't registered the gate behind him opening, allowing the man in grubby jacket and jeans, dirty rucksack slung over one shoulder, to enter the alley, bypassing the Police cordon at either end of the street.

"What did you say? Do you know about this?"

The man quickly cast his eyes over the scene turning his head this way and that as he scanned the street.

"I know that's Tracy Alcott. Friendly girl. Worked for Tariq at 'Express Kebab', where I've just come from actually. Always willing to 'drop' a kebab on the floor so that one of the homeless can have it for free. She usually works the late shift on a Friday night. Finishes at 2am then Tariq closes up. Walks to her flat above 'Quickee Naylz'" He nodded his head in the direction of the other street. "Usually walks with Hassan, but he got called back to Turkey on Wednesday. His grandfather died. There's a big family funeral. Gathering of the clans I suppose you'd call it. Err, you there, in the blue jumpsuit. You need to move your foot very carefully. That piece of paper you are currently grinding into papier-mâché is actually evidence."

Anderson looked up sharply at the interloper, his eyes flashing with anger. "I don't take advice on how to do my job from some homeless addict."

The man smirked. "Well if that's how you do your job I'm not surprised you're so inept. There's cast off on the side of the red skip, just about level with your shoulder. Therefore she was killed here by a killer who was not six feet tall. There are cigarette butts by the gate I've just come through. There was a heavy shower at about eight last night. Given the air temperature evaporation would be complete leaving the tarmac dry by around 1am. The butts are dry, all three of them. Whoever killed her was waiting for her after the road had dried. You'll also notice that both the security lights above the gates are broken, apparently by vandals throwing rocks, but most likely by the killer to hide his presence. This alley would have been dark last night, but she'd have used it anyway as its familiar to her and any other route would have turned a five minute walk into twenty minutes. She left work as usual just after two, walking on her own without her usual escort. He used an iron bar, perhaps something he found in the skip, but more likely he came prepared so possibly an old crowbar. You can see by the rusty line across her chest that he struck there first. He probably broke a couple of her ribs. She doubled over as bone shards punctured her lungs. She was already bleeding out internally when he struck her in the back of the head. He rolled her over onto her back in the gutter so she couldn't be easily seen from the main roads and to make sure she was dead. The massive internal bleeding accounts for the lack of blood from the head wound. The killer knew she would be alone and took his chance. You might like to know that Hassan's very jealous boyfriend has had angry words with Tracy several times over her friendship with, in his words, 'his property'. Raoul Gomez is a five foot six inch body builder with a twenty a day habit and a very short temper. And I may live on the streets but I am not an addict."

Lestrade closed his mouth and broke the stare he'd been giving the dark haired man since he'd started speaking. He turned to the crime scene team and rapidly gave orders. "Secure the evidence by this gate and check for prints. Record the blood splatter and any other evidence on the skip. And Anderson, remove your clod-hoppers from that evidence and bag it before it's completely destroyed." He turned to see the man walking away, curls bouncing in the gently breeze. "Oi, you. No sneaking off. I need your name and a full statement. And don't think you're getting out of this alley." Raising his voice to attract the attention of the uniformed constable and sergeant securing the end of the street he called out "Foster, Donovan, matey boy here's staying put. If he tries to get past you cuff him and stick him in the car. Material witness."

The man's shoulders dropped with resignation, as he returned to the DI's side. "Now, would you take me through that again, just a little more slowly this time? By the way, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Welcome to my crime scene. Can I take your name?"

"You can, but I'd prefer you kept it out of the official reports. I have a very annoying older brother who sticks his nose into everything. I've been avoiding his interference for four years. If you want my help, that's the deal. Put any name you like, just not Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade wondered what kind of interfering older brother would drive an obviously intelligent and able man to resort to homelessness for four years. He could only assume someone powerful and controlling. Perhaps someone with dubious connections if taking himself off of the grid was the only way Sherlock could escape his older brother's unwanted attention. The question 'who the hell calls their kid Sherlock?' also flashed briefly though his mind before being ousted by more urgent matters.

"Agreed, Mr Peter Parker, which I believe to be an alias, but as the informant was not in possession of identification I was unable to confirm." Sherlock's mouth quirked into the barest semblance of a smile. "Now, take me through it again while I write this down."

* * *

><p><strong>plod = uniformed police officer, normally a PC (Police Constable)<strong>  
><strong>skip = a type of dumpster. It's open topped with no wheels, a sort of giant bucket. It is transported on the back of a flat-bed lorry, then winched into position. Once it is full, the lorry returns and removes it.<strong>  
><strong>clod-hoppers = slang for heavy boots<strong>

**-0-0-0-**

**In Old English Seger means the seawarrior (as used in part 1 of this series, 'Birth').**

**Enora is a Celtic name from Brittany - St. Enora was the wife of St. Efflam; both took vows of chastity after their marriage, yet remained together for the rest of their lives. (Thanks to amethyst-night's website for the information).**


	8. DI Lestrade meets Mr Holmes

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Set in February 2005. Referenced in 'Trefoil' chapter 24.**

**_Trigger warning:_ homelessness, crime scene, non-consensual drug use, overdose**

* * *

><p>It was cold.<p>

No, it was bloody freezing.

A sudden cold snap on Valentine's Day had brought heavy snow across the region. Snow was a rarity in the Capital, and it hardly ever stayed for long, melting away under grit and the tramp of thousands of footfalls. But the arctic temperatures lingered leaving all but the gritted pavements as icy death-traps. Greg knew from his contacts in uniform that bodies of the homeless were turning up in numbers, caught out by the sudden change in temperature. Even the Sally Army, churches, various homeless shelters and night hostels had been caught out. They quickly filled up, having to turn away hundreds across the capital to an uncertain future.

Greg's mind strayed to Sherlock Holmes. He'd helped out on several crime scenes now, appearing at the tape and demanding to see the DI. Greg had to admit, he had a remarkable eye for evidence, and could pull together the minutiae that even the more experienced forensic guys missed. If he was honest, Sherlock's sharp eyes and even sharper brain had helped clean up two cases that, when he first arrived at the scenes, he thought would be headed for the cold case file.

Anderson had been the lead tech on one of them. As usual he'd missed a few key pieces of evidence in his haste to draw his own conclusions about the crime. Every time they got back to the Yard, Greg had to remind him that his job was to find and document all available evidence, placing it in context, and Greg's job was to pull it together and solve the case. He had nothing against the bloke, and on the whole he was a good scientist, he was simply too easy to distract, overlooking or discounting evidence because it didn't fit how he saw the crime. Greg had already decided that he was going to give him one more chance before asking that he be moved to another team and perhaps given a refresher course. He couldn't risk screwing up cases because the forensic tech wanted to be Quincy.

Greg had spent the afternoon at his desk. He'd had to endure the muck that passed for coffee from the vending machine in the break room. Nobody was willing to go outside for a coffee run. He'd spent the afternoon in relative warmth catching up on paperwork and keeping his fingers crossed that the murderers were all keeping indoors in the warm too.

By four o'clock it was dark outside. Flurries of snowflakes still fell, but were too small to settle, melting away to nothing as soon as they hit the damp ground. His phone rang. A call diverted from the switchboard. The Emergency Call Operator explaining the caller had dialled 999 and had specifically asked to speak to Inspector Lestrade, urgently.

As soon as he said his name the voice of a young man began to whisper down the phone. The voice sounded frightened but determined. The accent was indeterminate, possibly originally from the Midlands, but hardened by long exposure to the clipped tones of London.

"Is that Inspector Lestrade. Good. Listen. Sherlock's in trouble. 'Ee was trackin' a dealer selling bad shit to kids. Wiv the bad wevver 'ee said it was as good a time as any. At least 'eed be out of the cold. 'Sept I think 'ee got made. Went into those flats their refurbing on Webber Row, top floor, furvest from the street. I was watchin' see. Lookout like. 'Ee went in sweet, then these two ovver blokes show up. Smart whistles and shooters. Fing is, 'ee asn't come out an neever 'ave they, an' it's been too long. 'Ee told me, if it went tits up ta call you, so that's what I've done. Get 'ere fast, but no blues and twos when ya get 'ere. 'Ee needs ya."

"On my way. Thanks for the call." There was no point asking for the boy's name. He'd never give it and would have fled the scene by the time they arrived.

Greg grabbed his coat, pulling on scarf and gloves as he made for the lift. "Wilson, Carter, with me. Donovan, call SC&O19. Put an Armed Response Unit on standby in Webber Row. Silent approach, possible hostage situation. And call Murchison in Vice. I need to know everything they've got on a dealer operating out of Webber Row, probably selling bad drugs. If he kicks up a stink tell him to get me in the car. I need to get there fast."

The lift arrived and the three officers dashed for the car park. Lestrade briefed the sergeants as they drove through London traffic, lights and sirens clearing the way for them. Murchison called though as they drove. No known dealer on Webber Row, but they were aware of a bad batch of Ecstasy that had started appearing on the street. The dealers obviously knew it was bad, not risking it on their regular clients and dumping it cheaply on kids and the homeless. They hadn't been able to get hold of a sample for analysis but whatever it was cut with was lethal causing convulsions, tachycardia and hyperthermia at levels way above the norm. The few victims who had survived had suffered brain damage from their excessively high body temperature. Most users had died within hours on ingestion. Greg blanched when Murchison passed on the news.

"Why the interest Greg? If it's urgent I can have some of my lads over to you in a hour or so."

"I might need them, I'll let you know. In the mean time I've got one of my informants in there with the dealer, his crew, and maybe a couple of heavies with guns. I'm about two minutes out, so let me and my team go in first. Once I've got my lad out if there's anything worth your time I'll give you a shout. Give me thirty minutes or so to get the situation under control and I'll let you know."

Ending the call he glanced at his sergeant, listening intently in the passenger seat. "Carter, confirm that the Armed Response car is here. Also, we may need an ambulance. If this has gone sideways we'll need them."

Arriving by the flats, Lestrade gently parked up by the curb, his sirens and lights long since switched off. The black clad SC&O19 team were waiting round the corner, out of sight of the flats, already armed and ready to go. Lestrade briefed the team, then walked towards the flats, the rest of his support team hugging the wall and staying out of the sightlines from the flat. Greg quietly climbed the stairs and made his way along the walkway to the final flat. There was no sign of whoever had called, but then the homeless were very adept at remaining unseen when they wanted; a skill essential to survival on the streets.

The door to the final flat was ajar. Greg could hear voices from inside. The two dark suited bruisers had their backs to the door, talking to a Londoner further inside the flat. One of the bruisers spoke, his voice heavily accented. Something eastern European, but Greg couldn't place it. The men argued back and forth about 'the product', but no-one mentioned Sherlock, and Greg couldn't be sure he was there.

One of the bruisers indicated off to his right, possibly another room. "An' vot about 'im? 'As 'ee talked?"

"Nah, and 'ee won't. I've shot 'im so full'a coke 'eel be floating on clouds right up to tha pearly gates."

That was all Greg needed. Stepping back he let the armed officers in first closely followed by Wilson and Carter. He pulled out his phone placing a priority call for an ambulance to deal with an overdose. He then sent a pre-typed text to Murchison telling him the address was confirmed. The Vice boys would be all over it within the hour.

As soon as the flat was secure, Greg dived in the direction indicated by the thug. Sure enough Sherlock lay on the filthy single bed, a tube tied around his bicep and a needle hanging from his arm. Greg removed the needle, carefully handing it to Wilson to be bagged. "I need this tested top priority. Hopefully it's not contaminated with anything nasty, although I doubt it's clean. And chase up the ambulance. I need them here yesterday."

Greg checked Sherlock's pulse. It was weak and thready. "Come on sunshine, keep breathing. Ambulance'll be here soon and we'll get you tucked up nice and warm in hospital with clean sheets and all those pretty nurses. Come on."

Suddenly there was a rasp and then nothing.

"SHIT! Wilson, help me get him on the floor. I need to start CPR."

Wilson helped, but looked dubious about giving a homeless man mouth to mouth, much to Greg's disgust.

"OK, you start heart compressions, I'll do the mouth to mouth."

Between them they kept Sherlock alive until the ambulance crew arrived ten minutes later. Sherlock was still breathing when he was placed into the ambulance, Greg going with him having handed the scene over to the recently arrived Murchison. Sherlock was still alive when he arrived at A&E. He crashed en route to the treatment room, but was resuscitated. Greg paced the corridor awaiting news, unaccountably concerned for this man's well-being.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

The cultured male voice had not asked a question, but expressed his name as a statement of fact. Greg turned to face the owner of the voice expecting to see a doctor. Instead he stood before a man of similar height and age to himself, with tawny brown hair wearing an obviously expensive three piece suit, and somewhat incongruously, using a black umbrella as though it were a walking cane.

"Yes, I'm DI Lestrade. Do you have news about Sherlock?"

"No, not as yet. I am awaiting a report before I arrange for his transfer to a private hospital."

Greg nodded as he realised who the man was. Powerful, interfering, controlling. This had to be the brother.

"I don't think so. He's a material witness in an ongoing investigation, so you won't be taking him anywhere Mr Holmes."

If the man was surprised that Greg had discerned his identity, he didn't show it, his demeanour as glacial as before.

"Sherlock's spent four years avoiding you. Just because he got himself in a mess when investigating a drug dealer doesn't mean you can spirit him away. He put himself in danger to bring down a bloke that's killing kids with dirty E. We didn't know anything about him, but Sherlock does, so as soon as he's fit, he'll be talking to Vice so we can get these bastards and their muck off the streets. Understand."

"Thank you Detective Inspector. I do understand fully now. So, Sherlock wasn't …?" The question hung in the air.

"No Sherlock wasn't using. That bastard pumped him so full of coke he's crashed at least twice. I bagged the needle to make sure it's not contaminated with anything nasty before it's filed into evidence. I haven't spoken to anyone yet since they took him in. I'm hoping no news is good news."

"Yes. Quite."

The man turned and walked towards a cluster of blue plastic chairs, indicating that Greg should join him. Once they were uncomfortably seated it took a few minutes for the man to talk.

"Thank you Detective Inspector, for saving my brother."

"My pleasure Mr Holmes."

"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

"Pleasure to meet you Mycroft Holmes."

There was another long pause as both men stared straight ahead, lost in their own thoughts. Greg was going over the scant information Sherlock had imparted about his brother and what he could surmise from Sherlock himself. Obviously intelligent and well educated. The suit indicated a fair degree of wealth. Greg knew that the man was powerful and, according to Sherlock, almost omnipotent. Greg was broken from his reverie when the man beside him almost whispered into his phone "Yes my dear. Tell Her Majesty I will be delighted to meet with her tomorrow afternoon. Please ensure I receive no further calls tonight and clear my calendar for tomorrow morning. Thank you my dear."

Greg simply stared for countless seconds until his brain re-engaged. "Her Majesty? As in the Queen Her Majesty."

"Um, yes Detective Inspector. I hold a minor position in the British Government which occasionally necessitates meetings with the Monarch. I would greatly appreciate your keeping that information between ourselves. As a serving officer of Her Majesty's Police Force you have no doubt signed the Official Secrets Act. This knowledge is covered by the Act and I will not hesitate to enact it should my position or identity become common knowledge as a result of our talk."

"Right, right. Back off. I know how to keep a secret. Wouldn't be where I am if I couldn't."

Mycroft seemed to relax slightly.

"What is your relationship with my brother?"

Greg was a little taken aback. This almost sounded like 'the talk'.

"Shit, nothing like that. I've known him about six months. He wandered onto my crime scene one day and solved the case in five minutes flat. Bloody amazing. He turns up every now and then. Throws in his two penneth. Most of the time he's spot on, and when he's not he's there or there abouts. He's got a real gift for it. Reads a crime scene like it's an open book."

"At least he is being useful."

"Yeah, he is. Very. I wouldn't mind having him on the Force, but I doubt he'd survive the discipline. He's not one for taking orders. And I can't really approach him to assist in any consultancy capacity, not while he's living on the streets. Of course, that may not be an issue now as he's only been doing it to avoid you."

"Yes. An error on my part I'm afraid." Greg suspected that any admission of failure was painful to the man. "If he were to find permanent accommodation, would you be willing to perhaps allow him access to your crime scenes, in a consultancy capacity of course?"

"Don't see why not, if he's got a roof over his head and he can stay away from the drugs, especially after this. A massive dose like that can wreak havoc if he's not careful."

"Perhaps the threat of regular searches of his accommodation, strictly unofficial, of course, would ensure he remains focused."

"May be. But fake drugs busts could get me in trouble. I don't like using my badge to coerce people, especially unofficially."

"I applaud your ethics Detective Inspector. However, this is not so much coercion as protection."

"And it sounds very similar to what drove Sherlock away from you and into hiding in the first place."

For the first time since they'd met, Mycroft's façade cracked. A flash of guilt darkened his features before he brought the mask back into place.

"Consider the possibilities. You will have access to my brother and I will have him safe and healthy. Of course you will need to convince him. He must not know that we have discussed this. If he learns that we have agreed to this he will believe I am manipulating him again, something that must be avoided at all costs."

At that moment a doctor approached. "Detective Inspector Lestrade? Good news. The patient is out of danger. I understand that the drug was administered by force, so the usual protocols for a patient admitted in such a condition do not apply. He is still unconscious and we do not expect him to awake until the morning at the earliest. If you leave your contact details with reception we will call as soon as there is any change."

Mycroft stood, addressing the doctor. "I am the patient's brother. I would like to leave a security detail outside his door for his own protection."

"That should be acceptable, as long as they don't interfere with the staff."

"Excellent. Now, if you have no objection, I would like to sit by my brother's side. He should see his family when he awakes don't you think."

Saying their goodbyes, Mycroft followed the doctor to Sherlock's room, whilst Greg left his details with the receptionist before heading home, contemplating Mycroft's suggestion all the way. He didn't feel entirely comfortable, but, if Sherlock agreed, he'd be happy to take whatever assistance he could get.

-0-0-0-

This didn't feel like before. Instead of the gentle disintegration of the shimmering cocoon created by the cocaine, this was a cataclysm. His past experiences with the drug were calming, his mind wrapped in a protective shell. This was nothing like that. This time the experience was dark, jagged, with cold oppressive walls that stifled all thought. He raged against it, beating fists against the harsh barriers as his throat grew sore from his unheard screams. Then, suddenly, the walls began to splinter, shards raining down upon his Mind Palace. For what seemed an eternity he cowered under the barrage, until finally the noise abated and silence reigned.

He opened his eyes.

He was in a bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a comfortable bed with clean sheets. An IV stand dispensed fluids into his right arm, whilst a machine beeped quietly to the beat of his heart. Not dead then. Muted early morning light offered gentle illumination. Still fuzzy, he scanned the room. He heard a gentle snore. Someone was in the room with him. He turned to see Mycroft, suit crumpled and tie loosened, sprawled in an uncomfortable looking chair, his head lolled back on the head rest. Well that had blown it. Nearly five years of dodging his brother and now here he was, trapped again.

Sherlock lay back, staring at the uninspiring ceiling of his hospital room. Private no doubt if Mycroft had anything to do with it. He may as well enjoy it while he could. Mycroft would have him transferred to some private rehab unit soon enough under the guise of safeguarding his younger brother's welfare. Sherlock pondered whether Mycroft still had designs on him going to to his secret laboratory. Probably not as Sherlock's knowledge was seriously out of date and his skills rusty. But then, such a small obstacle would never deter Mycroft from achieving what he'd set his mind to. He was much like Mummy in that regard.

He did not allow his mind to dwell on Mummy and Daddy. He had more important things than the wellbeing of his parents and their disappointment with him to occupy the few moments before Mycroft awoke.

What the hell had happened? He had left Billy Wiggins outside with orders to contact Lestrade if anything went wrong. He'd knocked on the door of the flat saying he'd been sent by Blade; one of the dealers running a gang in Hoxton, who Sherlock occasionally worked on the door for. He knew Pitbull had been dealing the contaminated E. One of his homeless network had lost her close friend and companion to the drug. She'd been more than happy to point out the man and tell everything about where and how Kylie had met him. Nell's story was not dissimilar to several others Sherlock had heard over the previous weeks. He took the case, determined to bring this man and, with luck, his suppliers down. He would gather as much information as he could then hand the whole lot over to Lestrade.

Pitbull had welcomed him, offering a coffee and telling him to dump his stuff in the little bedroom. He'd only just set up in the new location, but was expecting the street dealers to start showing up that afternoon. Sherlock would do what he always did; make sure that anyone who came in was either a legit dealer or customer.

It all went to hell when the Serbians showed up. They didn't like the look of Sherlock; didn't trust him. Also, they knew Blade. A quick phonecall later and Sherlock's cover story was torn to shreds. After five years on the streets, Sherlock was fast and wiry, but not enough to dodge the brute who grabbed his arms and held him tight.

He began to writhe as he was held down on the bed, genuinely panicked at what could be about to happen. He was almost relieved when Pitbull walked in with a syringe and told one of his captors to rip open his sleeve. Terror reared its head when Pitbull sneered, his foul breathed whispers explaining exactly what was in the syringe and how long Sherlock had left on this earth. The needle stung, Pitbull not worried about any delicacy in finding a vein. As the cocaine hit his system the gentle opalescence he was used to instantly gave way to something terrifyingly darker. His last thought was "Let me live."

"Sherlock, brother, are you coherent? Sherlock, please."

"Really Mycroft, begging? How long have I got?" Mycroft looked nonplussed. "How long before I'm carted away under lock and key to some prison cell of your choosing. I'm sure you can convince a private clinic that I am a dangerously unstable character who requires constant supervision. I might go along with your plan if the narcotics are good. After all, I've spent my days on the streets shooting up at every opportunity. This last episode was an unfortunate miscalculation. What can I say, I am beyond redemption. Lock me away so I cast no further shadow upon the Holmes name. I'm sure Mummy will approve."

"She slapped my face and banished me from the house."

Sherlock brightened. "Really? Good for her. When was this?"

"When I confessed what I had done to you. You have my abject apologies. I used you abominably. Even now I shudder to contemplate how I treated you merely because I thought I knew best how you should live your life. It was unforgivable brother. That you felt your only recourse was to disappear into homelessness and poverty is intolerable to me. I spoke to your Detective Inspector. I understand you have found a niche for yourself. You should know that, however you choose to live your life is for you to decide. My role will be to support you in whatever endeavour you set your mind to. I will swear a blood oath if you choose."

Sherlock smiled gently as he recalled the games of their childhood. Before he left for boarding school, Mycroft used to play pirates with the young Sherlock, reading him Treasure Island and teaching him of the Spanish Main, blood oaths and parlez. That Mycroft referenced those times now meant a great deal to his younger brother. "I appreciate your apologies." Sherlock paused for a moment chewing his lip. "How are Mummy and Daddy?"

"Well. They've missed you desperately. I was only reconciled to them the second Christmas after you left. I don't believe either of them has truly forgiven me for driving you away."

"And Linley?"

"He's doing very well. Unsurprisingly he is pursuing a career as a thespian. He has had small roles in some forgettable television dramas popular with the masses. He received excellent reviews for his work with the National Theatre and RSC. He is still using the name Linley Safford. We agreed, when he went up to university, that it would be safest for us all if he did not use the Holmes name."

"University?"

"Yes. He achieved a BA with honours from RADA. We were all very proud."

"Well done Linley. I'm pleased for him."

"I should call the nurse. They requested to be informed when you awoke. There is some concern about the effects of the overdose on your mind. Also, you are severely malnourished. They have provided a recommended diet plan to return you to health."

"You learn to eat infrequently when your options for nourishment are limited. Similarly with sleep. When you are in permanent danger from thugs, thieves or being moved on by police, it becomes impossible to do more than nap."

Mycroft's look of distress at a further consequence of his own actions upon his brother's health tore at Sherlock's heart. "Brother, you are forgiven. Just don't do it again. Now, inform the nurse that I am awake and compos mentis, then perhaps you can arrange for one of you watchdogs in the hall to organise something vaguely edible for us. I feel in the mood for scrambled eggs, perhaps with a little smoked salmon."

Mycroft smiled. "That sounds most agreeable brother. And, if you have no objection I will call Mummy. Do you think you can suffer a torrent of recriminations and motherly love later today?"

"It will happen sometime so best get it out of the way sooner rather than later. Carry on brother. I will wait here for your return."

Mycroft accepted his brother's peace offering with a lightness of heart he had not felt in almost half a decade. He felt a moment of fear as he crossed the threshold into the hall, but no, his brother had made a promise. He would not run. He would remain in his room, awaiting the return to his family, apologies made and accepted, the past forgiven if not forgotten.

* * *

><p><strong>Sally Army = slang for Salvation Army<strong>  
><strong>whistles = Cockney rhyming slang - whistles and flutes = suits<strong>  
><strong>shooters = guns<strong>  
><strong>tits up = gone wrong, gone badly<strong>  
><strong>blues and twos = lights and siren on a police car<strong>  
><strong>two penneth = two pence worth. Slang for an opinion usually within a group discussion. "He stuck his two penneth in."<strong>

**-0-0-0-**

**I suspect that recovery from an overdose is usually much more prolonged and a lot less comfortable. However, as I've given Sherlock an atypical reaction to cocaine anyway of course, for the purposes of the narrative, he's also had an atypical recovery.**

**To those of you who have followed or favorited my stories, I thank you. To those of you who have read or reviewed these scratchings, I thank you. Your time and contribution is very much appreciated. If you wish to leave comments or constructive criticism, please do. Your input is always valued and an encouragement to continue.**


	9. Meeting the Morstans again

**The last time John met the Morstan family was in 1993 when he pretended to be Mary's boyfriend. Now, eighteen years later, he is Mary's boyfriend, and it's time to get reacquainted.**

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Set in late 2011, this is a missing story between Chapters 2 and 3 of 'Watersheds'. You may want to read that first.**

**_Trigger warning_: mentions of cancer, mentions of suicide**

* * *

><p>"Have you got the present?"<p>

"Yes."

"And the address of the church? Is it in the satnav?"

"Yes, of course. Once I worked out how to do it. Calm down. It's only your family. It's not like I haven't met most of them before. Anyway, shouldn't it be me who's nervous, not you?"

"Probably, but I don't want them to hate you. It's been nearly twenty years. Mum went ballistic when I told her we'd 'broken up'. Blamed me for it of course. Now she doesn't believe you actually exist."

"So she doesn't know it's me? That your new boyfriend is your old 'boyfriend'."

"No. Pete does though."

"And he's OK?"

"He always was. He's looking forward to seeing you again actually. He liked you."

"Hopefully he still will."

They started driving their hire car towards Morden in south London, and St Teresa's Catholic Church. The latest addition to the Morstan family, Jenny's daughter, Siobhan O'Keeffe, was being christened. It seemed the ideal opportunity for John to re-introduce himself to Mary's family; an event he was facing with some trepidation.

John had never really had much family. There'd been cousins and family parties when he was younger, all relatives on his father's side, his mother having no-one but an aging great-aunt-in-law remaining. However, over time, the family had become fragmented. Once his father lost his job, his self-respect, and himself in the bottom of a bottle, there was no further contact. A few distant family members turned up for the funeral, making promises of support for his Mum which never materialised. Meeting Mary's family when he pretended to be her boyfriend was a pleasant shock. They'd all been welcoming, even her over-bearing, match-making mother.

Now he was going to meet them again. Her little sister, Jenny, just 15 when they last met, was now married with four children of her own. Mary's father had passed away nearly eighteen months previously after a long battle with cancer. John had liked Pierre. He was a kind man who treasured his children and supported them in all they did. In some ways John felt a great affinity for the man. Not only had he helped make Mary into the woman John loved, but his illness had drawn her away from her life in Australia and back to London. Because of that quirk of fate, Mary had been able to reach out to John in one of his darkest moments. She had saved him; something he would be forever grateful for.

They reached the church with twenty minutes to spare. A low brick building, of an age with the surrounding houses, all built at the start of the twentieth century when London really began to sprawl, consuming surrounding villages as it went, absorbing them into her being with waves of brick and tarmac.

It was no surprise that the church was relatively modern, as most Catholic churches across the UK are. The old Norman and medieval parish churches having been subsumed by the newly formed Church of England during Henry VIII's reformation of British religion as part of his ongoing battle with the Vatican over who he could call his Queen. Only when Catholic worship was once again legalised in 1791 did anyone start building Catholic churches, the Victorian era in particular seeing an increase in construction. St Teresa's looked to have been constructed in the 1920s. It was fairly small, but had a large community hall tacked on the back as a more modern afterthought. Garish drawings on craft paper stuck to the windows indicated its use as a pre-school nursery. Luckily Jenny's husband, Danny, whilst being a good Catholic, was also proud to honour his Irish heritage, so eschewed the church's temperance hall in favour of holding the post christening party at a nearby tennis club, with bar.

John held open the church door, Mary holding his hand tightly, as she had done since he had guided her from the car. She led him into the interior, dark after the bright autumn sunlight outside. Mary could see her immediate family spread throughout the church, talking in small groups to more distant family members; cousins, aunts and uncles. Many of the faces were unfamiliar, probably either friends or members of Danny's family.

Catching sight of her older brother, Pete, and his wife Maggie standing near the back of the church, Mary made her way towards them, John following along behind. Pete noticed his sister before she reached them, tapping Maggie on the shoulder to draw her attention. Spotting John, Pete grinned even wider. Both men looked older, but John looked like a man who had lived so much more than most people, the experiences reflected in his face and his greying hair.

Pete knew about John being shot, about Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty (Mary was adamant, not Richard Brook, never Richard Brook), and John having to witness Sherlock's fall (no, not suicide. It was a fall. The Fall.) Mary had spent a long phone conversation taking him through what she could, what wasn't a secret that could cost lives. Pete had naturally been concerned about his little sister getting involved with the grieving flatmate of a man labelled a psychopath and a fake, but Mary had allayed his fears. He'd met John, only once, but he'd trusted him enough with his sister's safety then. Mary assured him that, despite or perhaps because of his experiences, John was as honourable and trustworthy a man as ever. Seeing the man Mary was pulling towards him, Pete knew that she was right. Older, yes, wiser, perhaps, damaged by time and circumstance, definitely, but still the John Watson he'd met and entrusted the safety of his sister to.

"John, good to see you. Mary, so glad you could make it. Maggie, this is John Watson. John, my wife Maggie."

Hands shook, cheeks kissed and greetings exchanged the little group smiled at each other, before Pete and Mary launched into an update on family gossip, with Maggie assisting when Pete got things wrong or left out a juicy titbit. John smiled, and listened, his eyes lazily scanning the church, forever the soldier. A teenage girl approached, dragging a much younger girl behind her.

"Mum, Dad, Stephanie wants to light a candle for Grandpa. I want to too. Can we please light a candle? We need two pound coins. Perlllleeeeaaaassse."

"Bethany, Stephie, we're talking. I raised you better than to be so rude, barging in like that."

John spoke up. "Maggie, would you like me to help. The candles are only over there. I'll take them, if you like."

"Oh John, would you? Thank you. Now girls, this is Uncle John. He is Aunty Mary's boyfriend. You go with him and he'll help you light the candles. And be good."

"Yes Mum."

One pair of blue eyes looked up at him, whilst the other remained firmly on the floor. Bethany, the older of the two, was only a few inches shorter than him, almost of a height with Mary. She wore her dark strawberry blonde hair in a long plait down her back, picked out with tiny fabric daisies, matching the pattern on her white dress. She greeted Uncle John with all the confidence of youth. Her younger sister, Stephanie, wore grey trousers and a long green jumper patterned with golden flecks. The cuffs were pulled down over her wrists and scrunched tight in her palms. She kept her light brown hair in a long bob, the fringe clipped back with a plain gold clip to keep it from flopping over her eyes. John suspected the clip would disappear shortly, the better for the shy child to hide, at least a little.

John stuck out his hand, shaking Bethany's in greeting. "Hello Bethany. I'm John. It's my very great pleasure to meet you. Do you prefer Bethany of Beth?"

The teen glowed. "Oh, Beth would be great. My friends all call me that. I tried to get Mum and Dad to call me Beyoncé, but they said no. When I was little they called me Bee, but I haven't be called that in ages. Not since I grew up." Both John and Bethany looked a little sad, for different reasons, but with the same cause.

"Well, if you like, it would my honour to call you Bee. Would you like that?"

The girl brightened. "Yes please Uncle John. Call me Bee."

"Then Bee it is. And what about you Stephie? What shall I call you?"

"I'd'know. Don't mind." The tiny voice was barely a whisper, aimed straight at the timid child's shoes.

John crouched down, dropping low enough to almost be in the girl's eye line. "Hey Stephie, no need to be shy of me. Not if you don't want to be. I'm delighted to meet you. You can call me Uncle John. John, or even Oi You if you like." That got a snort of surprise from the youngster.

"Good, Oi You it is then. At least for now. And how about I call you Hey Fluffy. Is that OK?" A small smile and a little nod, head still bent to the floor, but eyes raised a little to glance at John through eyelashes before dropping back to the floor. "Excellent. When we know each other better we'll sort out better names, but this works fine for now. Right, someone wanted to light candles for Grandpa Pierre. Am I right? Good. So come along Bee and Hey Fluffy, let's get those candles lit." John reached out his hands, one girl attaching herself to each.

Bee broke the brief silence. "Our big brother's called Pierre. Daddy said he was named after Grandpa."

"Really. I bet your Grandpa was very proud. I met your Grandpa once, a long time ago. He was a very nice man. I liked him a lot. I bet he used to make you laugh. What do you remember best about him?"

Mary watched the three head across the church, a smile on her face. Pete and Maggie both paused in their conversation too, pleased at the sight.

"He's good with kids."

"Yeah he is, and the answer's still no before you ask. You were right back then Pete, about him, about us. I think there's enough nieces and nephews without adding to the brood."

"Hey, just checking sis. I know kids are not what you want, and if he feels the same then it's all good isn't it."

"Yeah, well he's never seen kids in his future either. I think he's seen too much horror to want to bring a child into this world even if there was the will. Doesn't stop him caring for the ones who are here already though. He'll make a great Uncle, you wait and see."

"Well, looks like he's already made friends with Stephie. That's pretty amazing in itself."

-0-0-0-

The service lasted an hour. There was no time for socialising as everyone headed to the tennis club, either for the loos, the bar or both.

John and Mary met up with Pete and Maggie in the club car park, their car disgorging children onto the gravel.

"Hey, Pierre, come back here and say hello to your Aunt and Uncle."

A tall lad of fifteen, dark like his father and already showing the broad frame that favoured the Morstan men, slid to a halt as he dashed for the club house door. He turned, a little sulkily, dark hair falling in his eyes. Mary tightened her grip on John's hand when he gave a slight gasp at the image of a dark curl falling over sulky eyes. She knew that those little things, that really bore no resemblance to Sherlock at all, were enough to jar loose a memory and cause a stab of pain in her partner. She felt for him, hoping that soon that ragged part of John's soul could be healed. She would do all she could, but she knew it needed Sherlock to make the final repair. He just needed to get his arse home in one piece. What that meant for her, for them, at this stage she didn't know. But however it turned out, she wanted John whole.

"Pierre Morstan, get your lazy backside over here and say a proper hello to your Aunt."

The sulky teen approached, sticking out is hand. Mary grabbed the proffered hand, tugging the boy forward into a hug. "You're not too big for a hug and a sloppy Aunt-kiss young man. It's in the rules for Nephews and their Aunties. Nephews must be all standoffish and shy, Aunts must hug so tight it breaks ribs and leave a big lipstick mark on Nephew's cheek, then Nephew gets to whine 'ohh Aunty' before blushing up to his ears."

John and Pete were trying to stifle their laughs as Pierre finally gave in, dropping his sulky teen demeanour and giving Mary a grin. Wrapping his arms round Mary's waist he returned the hug, turning his head to better present his cheek. "Go on Aunt Mary, do your worst. Although you're not actually wearing lipstick so I think you broke the rules already."

"Smart alec!. I'll borrow some off your Aunt Jackie later just to get you. This is your Uncle John by the way. John Watson, meet Pierre Morstan."

Pierre's eyes lit up as he shook John's hand. "John Watson, like Dr John Watson? The blogger."

All the adults tensed. Pierre continued, oblivious, in all his fan-boy enthusiasm. "Wow, you're amazing. Well both of you. And that Moriarty's a bastard …"

"Pierre!"

"Sorry dad, but he is. Telling all those lies about Sherlock Holmes. I'm so sorry about what happened. You know, when I get a bit older I want to help. I want to help you bring down Moriarty. There's a whole load of us at school. We've been trying to piece it together but it's hard because all the papers print lies. But if you ever need us, you call. We all believe in Sherlock Holmes. We really do."

John's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he finally finished shaking the enthusiastic boy's hand. He smiled, a little weakly, but still with genuine affection. "Thank you Pierre. That's good to know. And I'll keep your offer in mind, although I would ask you not to go investigating yourself. Sherlock was the best, despite what the papers say, but Moriarty is a genius too, but evil with it. He doesn't care who he hurts or what he destroys. He has no conscience. He feels no guilt. Please don't get involved in something even experts can't handle. And I'd appreciate it if you kept my identity a secret, even from your friends and cousins, especially today. This is Siobhan's day. Perhaps when you're older we can have a talk, but until then I trust you to keep my secret."

Pierre drew himself up, a solemn look on his face. "Of course Uncle John. I promise. I won't tell a soul, not until you say I can."

"Good lad."

Pete gave permission for his son to join his cousins in the hall. Maggie called out from the back seat of the car. "Pete, can you help. Stephie refuses to leave the car."

John turned round, winked at Mary then called out. "Hey Fluffy!"

A little voice answer "Yes Oi You?"

Maggie and Pete stared at each other in disbelief.

"Come out here my lady. We've got cake and ice cream to eat and I'm not bringing it out to the back seat of a car when we can eat it in the warm."

"Oh good, cake!" The door on the opposite side from Maggie opened, and a bundle of childish exuberance burst out. John had grabbed Mary and made his way to the front of the car. He looked down at the girl with a smile and stuck out his other hand, feeling small fingers curling round his. Closing his grip he escorted the two ladies into the hall, leaving Pete and Maggie staring after them in bewilderment.

"Oi You?"

"Hey Fluffy?"

"Well, if it works I'm not arguing."

-0-0-0-

John and Mary joined Pete and Maggie in a quiet corner of the hall, taking over a table. They were soon joined by Jackie and her husband, Barney. Barney had hold of twins aged about five, whilst Jackie held a baby a little over a year old.

"Hi John, good to see you again. God, it's been what, eighteen years. This is my husband, Barney Walker, these horrors are Stephen and Sophie, and this little one is Nicola."

Barney and John shook hands once he'd managed to seat the twins and handed them paper and crayons. "Good to meet you John. Our oldest two are around here somewhere. Chloe's nine and Archie's seven. If you hear a crash that'll be one of ours."

A short while later, Jenny appeared pushing the sleeping Siobhan in her pram. Luckily, fear of waking the baby forced Jenny to modify her greeting to a muffled squeal, arms flung wide before dragging John into a hug. "John, it's wonderful to see you again. I'm so glad you could come. And you're back together with Mary. That's wonderful. You two always looked so right together. Danny's over there somewhere corralling Caitlin and her friends. Oh, Jackie, Archie's with Michael and Leon. Mum's around here somewhere. She's got Elaine, who'll be screaming for a change soon. We've managed to get her mostly potty trained, but when she gets over excited she forgets, so she's grumpy that she's back in the nappies today. Ohh, it's good to sit down. Today's been totally mad."

Jenny's talking was silenced when a hand tugged on John's sleeve and a voice said "Oi You?"

Jenny looked from Stephie, to John's smiling face to Pete and Maggie's unconcerned expressions. She expected the child to be reprimanded for being rude. Instead John turned and said softly, "Yes Hey Fluffy?"

"Can I have a drink please?"

"Of course you can."

John looked to Pete and Maggie, asking permission. They both nodded. "Well alright, come along then. Do you know what you want?"

As John and Stephie walked to the bar, Jenny and Jackie looked to their siblings for an explanation.

"What can we say, she likes him. She wanted to light a candle for Dad. John offered to take her, and next thing I know she's talking and calling him Oi You. He even got her out of the car, just by calling for her. You know it normally takes a crow bar to shift her if she's got to meet people. They just seem to have clicked."

"But wasn't he mixed up with …"

Mary cut her off straight away. "Yes, and we don't mention it. It's too raw. And before you say anything about 'no smoke without fire', I'll just remind you that the papers prints lies and nothing sells like a good smear campaign. And that's what this was, a smear campaign by a criminal mastermind against good men who were trying to bring him down. I mean they caught him red-handed in the Jewel House of the Tower of London sitting on a throne with the crown on his head and it all on CCTV. And they still found him unanimously not guilty after almost no deliberation. Talk about rigging a jury. So no, you don't talk about it, either in front of him or behind his back, and you certainly don't talk in front of the children because they will repeat something and I will never forgive you. Are we understood?"

Jenny nodded mutely. Just then Siobhan whimpered for her next feed, distracting Jenny as she rummaged in her baby bag for a bottle. Barney offered to nip to the bar for some hot water to heat the formula, taking a drinks order for everyone at the table with him.

Pete leant across to throw an arm round Mary's shoulder. "It's alright sis. It'll be fine." Mary chewed her lip, concerned at what the rest of the day would bring.

John returned to the table, escorting Stephie who carried a rather full glass of lemonade in two hands, her face a study in concentration. John carried a tray of assorted drinks, whilst Barney followed behind with a similarly ladened tray.

Stephie smiled with satisfaction as she carefully placed her drink on the table, not having spilt a drop.

"Well done Hey Fluffy. God job. Are you going to sit up here between your Aunt Mary and me?"

"Yes please Oi You. Look Aunt Mary, I didn't spill any."

"No you didn't. Well done."

The conversation continued around the table. Plates of food were collected from the buffet and cheerfully consumed. More drinks were purchased. Children of different ages appeared and disappeared as the mood took them. Danny arrived at some point, several children in tow, joining them at the table with a tired huff and shooing the children back into the fray.

Mary tapped John on the shoulder, her eyes flicking into the room. "Incoming."

John looked up. Theresa Morstan was approaching the table dragging a wailing Elaine behind her.

"Oh Jenny, I think Elaine is ready for a change. Shall I or will you do it?"

"Thanks Mum, I'll take her. Here you take my seat and spend some time with your latest granddaughter."

Danny leapt up to get his mother-in-law a drink, whilst she settled herself into her seat, appropriately at the head of the table. She leant over the pram looking at her sleeping grand-daughter. Without looking up she suddenly asked. "Well, are you going to make an honest woman of her this time?"

All conversation at the table stopped. Some looked uncomfortable, others were resigned to their Mother's outrageous behaviour.

"I don't know Theresa. May I still call you Theresa? We haven't discussed it yet. But then that's between us isn't it."

"I just wondered. I'm surprised she took you back after you deserted her last time."

Mary looked mortified. "MUM!"

John wasn't fazed at all. He'd dealt with far worse that Mrs Morstan. "No-one took anyone back, just as no-one deserted anyone. I told you when we last met that Mary had plans for her life that she wanted to follow. Well, so did I. We both knew that and we lived our lives accordingly. We never stopped being friends. Now fate has brought us back together again. At the moment we don't know where we are heading, but we're both looking forward to taking our time finding out."

"Huh, it's all very well you saying you'll take your time, but Mary's is running out."

Everyone looked to Mary in horror wondering what their Mother knew that Mary hadn't shared, all thinking the worst. Theresa Morstan carried blithely on, secretly pleased at the upset she'd caused.

"She's nearly 40. Her chances to have children are nearly gone. And you're talking about taking time."

Everyone around the table relaxed as they realised that Mary wasn't dying of some life threatening illness, but was instead the victim of their mother's obsession with women only being fulfilled once they had children. Pete shook his head is disbelief.

"Oh for god's sake Mum, I don't want kids, I've never wanted kids! Why can't you get it into your head. I'm one of the leading experts in my field in the world and you think the be all and end all is my producing babies. Well listen to me one last time. I AM NOT HAVING CHILDREN!"

Mary's increasing anger and volume had gradually silenced the entire room. Her final shout had stilled the tongues of the few who had remained oblivious. All eyes were on the table in the corner.

Theresa Morstan didn't know when to let things alone. She never had. She knew she was right and nothing would stop her from having her way. "Well you're wrong. I know you. All this medical stuff, just because you couldn't find a man …"

"ENOUGH!" John stood. He hated making a scene and certainly not in front of Mary's family, but he could not sit by and listen to this woman undermining his girlfriend. "Mrs Morstan, with the greatest respect, you have no idea what you're talking about. Mary is brilliant. She is an excellent doctor and teacher. She has saved more lives than I can count, including my own. She is amazing, and she certainly has never needed a man on her arm to make that happen. She did it all by herself. I am proud of her beyond belief. If you can't see how wonderful your daughter is then I feel sorry for you. If you really think that only a husband and children completes a woman, any woman, then I despair that any of your daughters grew up to achieve anything with their lives. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to take Mary outside. I'd appreciate it if you didn't follow. I think we both need a few minutes privacy, don't you."

John lead an ashen and shaking Mary away towards the bar and the small garden outside. Theresa looked annoyed. She stood to follow but was pulled up short by her son's hand on her arm. "No Mum. Sit down and stay there. They need some time without you interfering."

"But …"

"No. You know what John said is true. Mary has never wanted children. She never even wanted to get married. She's always walked her own path and you should respect that. She told you a long time ago about herself and what she wanted from life and you chose to ignore it. John and Mary are good for each other. They always have been. Dad saw it and so did I. We just needed to let them be to live their own lives. Now it's your turn. Do what Dad would have wanted. Leave Mary and John alone."

* * *

><p><span>The Morstan Family<span>

Pete and Maggie

1996 Pierre

1998 Bethany

2002 Stephanie

...

Jackie and Barney Walker

2001 Chloe

2004 Archie

2006 twins, Stephen & Sophie

2010 Nicola

...

Jenny and Danny O'Keeffe

2005 Michael

2007 Caitlin

2009 Elaine

2011 Siobhan

* * *

><p>To those of you who have left reviews of have followed or favourited this story, I thank you. To those of you who have read these scratchings, I thank you. Your time and contribution is very much appreciated. If you wish to leave reviews or constructive criticism, please do. Your input is always valued and an encouragement to continue.<p> 


	10. Alone with Mary

This chapter does not work properly. I tried to nudge it in the right direction and then made the mistake of publishing when I was not at all happy with it. For that reason I'm taking it down and will give it another go at a later date, once I've had a chance to do more work on it, or possibly perform a full re-write.

Apologies for the inconvenience.


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